


Dirty Laundry (The dark side of your room)

by Cassiel_of_Thursday



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Abuse, Al tharmen is terrible here too, Angst, Comfort, F/M, Friends to Lovers, High School AU, High School Teacher AU, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Platonic bed sharing, Sindria teachers!, Slow Burn, Slow Updates, War, dark themes, kou and sindria are rival schools, more tags to come, non-graphic sexual abuse, previous prostitution, self-injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2018-08-31 06:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 54,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8568244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassiel_of_Thursday/pseuds/Cassiel_of_Thursday
Summary: Sindria High School: an eclectic gathering of teachers and students. The year passes and friends are made, relationships bloom, and some secrets just won't stay in the corner where they belong. As anxieties draw high and boundaries are pushed, the war draws closer and continues to exert its influence. Will everyone be able to hold it together? Or will things start falling apart. Will Ja'far and Sinbad be able to work past their collective problems, or will circumstances prove to be too high? Indefinite hiatus.





	1. Unraveled and can't breathe

**Bringggg**

The grating sound of the bell echoed along the halls, lined with lockers and paved by off white tiles speckled unevenly with ones marking the team colors of the school: green and gold. Only the tiles were more moss and urine yellow. Looking more like vomit than anything. The doors of the main auditorium opened up, releasing the faculty from their first day of school meeting. The students gathered in the cafeteria, trading snacks and meals parents provided them. There were some, off to the sides, transfers who didn’t share the bond of middle school the other students had with each other. There were the kids who tried too hard, the science enthusiasts, the sports fanatics, the drifters, the scholars, and the loners. Then there were the anarchists. Who wanted to do anything and everything they were told not to. The principal emerged last, and made his way to the cafeteria. He was a giant of a man with a scar over his eye, an intimidating sight for those who were new to the school. He climbed up onto one of the tables and slowly conversation halted as curious gazes followed the blue haired giant looming in their midst.

“Welcome back,” his voice was deep, fitting his already extremely masculine aura. “Or welcome in general.” His smile was bright, and though he was large and rather gruff looking, his smile exuded kindness, and gentleness despite his large stature. One could almost see tension fall off the shoulders of the young freshman. “Now, we are starting a new school year, and I want everyone to put their best foot forward. You older students, watch over your younger peers. You younger students, don’t ever be afraid to seek help. And this semester, you aren’t alone in being new here. I don’t know what some of you may have heard, but I can assure you, your new teacher is very well qualified, and I believe he will fit in well with our standards here. We pride ourselves on not only for holding an exceptional learning environment, but for being a nurturing one too. This country is at war and many of you probably have family that you have lost to it. If you ever find yourself needing help, any of the faculty here, including myself, will do everything we can. I know this was a rather solemn welcome speech, but I like to make it a point to remind everyone that their teachers are resources, and that we can all work together to make this the best experience possible for each of you. Let’s all do our best this year, new students and returning. If any of you should need me, I’m not too hard to find.”

There was a small round of applause as the principle departed, and the volume slowly returned as individual chats spurred back to life.

“This war is terrible.”

“You think the teacher will still have his rants about world peace?”

“Probably.”

“Have you guys heard about the new teacher?”

“There’s a new teacher?”

“Yunan left.”

“What? Seriously?!”

“What did you expect?”

“I heard the guy they hired is super sketchy though, dad works with the ministry of defense and he was _not_ happy about it. He wouldn’t tell me why though.”

“Are you going to try out for any sports?”

“Maybe, I heard Kou’s football team is looking strong.”

“Kouen is the principal over there. He’s terrifying.”

“His younger brother is going to be on the team.”

“Kouha?!”

“That kid is a psycho.”

“That whole family is off.”

“Not that our school has a lot going in terms of normalcy.”

“True.”

Bits of conversations echoed around the room. A girl with red hair shrunk in on herself, feeling her pulse rise. She started counting in her head, 1, 2, 3. _It’s the first day. There are other people who feel the same way I do right now. I’m fine. I’m okay._ Her anxiety was rising with the voices, their words turning into a roar crashing against her eardrums. _I can do this. I_ can _belong here. No one wants me to leave. Right? They don’t right? What if they do?_

“Are you alright miss?” Her pink eyes snapped up to meet the blue ones looking down at her with concern.

“I-Uh-“ She faltered, noticing how tightly her grip on her arm was where she had curled in on herself in her bought of panic.

“Are you nervous?” She continued to take in the boy in front of her. Mussed blue hair and a long braid, and wide blue eyes. She released her grip, feeling her shoulders fall down to a normal level and some of the tension leave her neck as a small dusting of pink colored her pale cheeks.

“Yeah..”

“So am I. I just moved from really far away and this is all so new. Look how happy everyone seems here though.” She looked around, lots of bright smiles and laughing faces. There were other timid outsiders like herself, and like the boy in front of her, but she felt relieved. Seeing none of the misery she had known prior to this. None of the isolation as he smiled at her. “My name is Aladdin. What’s yours?”

“Morgianna,” he outstretched his hand to her. She blinked at him, her long lashes contrasting against her pallor. Then she felt something she hadn’t felt in some time, her lips pulled upwards, drawing a small smile on her young face.

“It’s nice to meet you Morgianna. You’re very beautiful when you smile you know.”

**Bringggg**

            “Where to first?”

            “Um, looks like English for me.”

            “Oh me too! See, we even have our first class together. Things won’t be so bad here.”

            “Thank you,” she mumbled as she stood to leave.

            “For what?” For the first time since approaching her, the toothy smile he held fell, shifting into a incremental frown, eyebrows pulling together.

            “For…” _What do I say? What do I say?_ “For talking to me.” She braved herself as she looked at him, prepared for him to think she was weird, only to be met once again by his smile.

            “I didn’t have a lot of friends back home. It was kind of crazy there. And my uncle told me once I had the power to help people. I’m still not really sure what he meant by that but I can’t help anyone if I don’t talk to them first.”

            “Where are you from Aladdin?”

            “Oh, I’m from another country. It’s called Alma Torran. Mom and dad said it wasn’t safe there, so they sent me and my uncle somewhere safer. This country was safe before the war, but my parents didn’t know we were at war here. Still, it’s probably safer anyway.” His eyes were sad as he spoke of his distanced parents, and she froze in the middle of the hallway and dropped her head in a deep bow.

            “I’m so sorry for asking!”

            “It’s okay. My mom and dad are fighting to help people. I’m sure they’re still alright. Besides, we’re friends now aren’t we?” He smiled again, but she still saw, in his eyes, where the smile didn’t quite reach anymore, the concern for his family back home. The friends he had there. The class was already somewhat full, apart from a few desks scattered about. Morgianna swallowed hard, looking at the room of unfamiliar faces conversing with one another. “Look, there are two seats together over there.” Aladdin said, tugging her hand towards the right side of the classroom. A couple classmates looked up at them as they walked to their seats, but their gazes quickly wandered away, back to the friends they were talking to.

            “Alright quiet down, please.” The man who had spoken turned to close the door, and Aladdin pointed at him, and Morgianna quickly grasped his hand and pulled it down before their teacher noticed.

            “Pointing at people is rude,” she whispered harshly from beside him, releasing her grip on his hand. Aladdin rubbed absently where she had touched, feeling the workings of a bruise, and how his classmate seemed utterly oblivious to the strength her grip had held.

            “Yeah but look how tall he is, he had to _duck_ to get in the door!” Aladdin whispered back. Morgiana looked back to the man, noticing his head did indeed surpass the height of the doorframe. He wore black dress pants, and a golden shirt with a red tie. Moriganna looked at him, feeling almost as if the man in front of her were prepared to lead her into a battle for the country, rather than one of grammar. He had a single earring, and deep green hair, a color that reminded her of the deepest recesses of the sea, though why she couldn’t be sure, she had never seen the sea.

            “Hello class. I extend my thanks for arriving to class promptly. Now, my name is Dragul Nol Henrius-“ No sooner than he had reached the center of the room, the door burst open.

            “Drakon!” The man’s professional aura diminished, his eyebrow twitching as his hands fell to his hips and looked to the intruder who looked like he was about to lose the offending hand that had opened the door to their teacher’s, Drakon’s?, stare.

            “Your timing is as impeccable as ever. Can I help you, Sinbad?” Sinbad smiled, his free hand laying on the hip he cocked to the side, leaning on the hand still holding the doorknob.

            “Well, mostly I just came to save these poor kids from having to hear that mouthful you call a name, but,” he paused, smile going impossibly wider “do you have a stapler?”

            “Why do you not have your own Sinbad?”

            “Ah, you see I do, well I did, but it seems to have gone missing. I suspect.. a thief!”

            “Top left drawer of the desk, return it before third period so I can do my own work. I suggest you check Sharkkan’s office if you are truly missing your property. Now if you would, Sinbad, please return to your own class so I may proceed.” Sinbad was already halfway across the room before Drakon had finished speaking, snagging the object and dashing out the door in a blur before popping his head back in, his long ponytail hanging in the doorway with his head.

            “Thanks Drakon! See you all again soon,” he said as he walked away, leaving the door open behind him. Before Drakon was even able to open his mouth yelling could be heard through the open door.

            “Give me back my stapler Sharkkhan!”

            “You don’t need it Yamraiha, I need to put up these fliers!”

            “You give it back now you muscle head or so help me-“

            “What, you’ll poison me?”

            “I have told you _over_ and over again that’s not what science is about!” Two people ran past the class room, and Morgianna and Aladdin just gaped. What kind of school was this?

            “How is anyone supposed to do any work around here,” they head mumbled as another man walked calmly past. A couple of kids in the class craned their head for a look at the one who spoke, but Drakon had shut the door just in time for most of the male to have gone unseen.

            “Did you see him?”

            “No did you?”

            “No. Dang. He was the only one who wasn’t at orientation awhile back.”

            “Was Yunan there?”

            “Ah I don’t remember.”

            “I think the new guy getting hired was last minute.”

            “Maybe they’ll replace him.”

            “I dunno, Mr. Hinahoho seemed pretty confident in him.”

            “Yeah but my dad said-“

            “I do believe that has been enough interruptions,” their teacher spoke up, effectively shushing the whispered conversations sparked by the recent events. “I swear. Those two… As my colleague mentioned, my name is Drakon. Rather, it is Dragul, but Drakon is the nickname Sinbad started, and it has caught on quite.. emphatically. You may feel free to address me as such. Now, onto the syllabus…”

            “Can I see the rest of your schedule?” Aladdin asked her after awhile. She nodded, pulling the slip of paper from her jacket pocket.

 

English – Spartos Leoxses 

History – Dragul Nol Henrius Govius Menudias Partenuvonomias Dumid Os Kartanon

Art: Sinbad Badoru

Math –Ja’far

P.E. –Sharkkhan Amun-Ra

Science – Yamraiha Mogamett

Study Hall – Masrur Fanari

 

            “We have a couple classes together, see. Art, math, history, and study hall.”

            Aladdin and Morgianna shared a smile. _This may be a fun school after all,_ she thought.

           

 

 

 


	2. This truth I seek

           Following their first class, they went on to art together.

            They sat together again, both of them a little unwilling to depart from the first friend they had made, and found themselves next to a blue haired boy who was somewhat reminiscent of their principal.

            “Are you kidding me?!” They heard a booming voice yell down the hall. Some heads turned towards the door, though they couldn’t see anything, their attention was still pulled toward their closest window to the commotion. Others, likely used to the periodic outbursts of this school, continued their talks, or kept their heads down. Aladdin swore one kid was fast asleep, and the disheveled state of his light hair hinted that it may not have been the first time today he decided to snooze.

            “Oh come on, Sinbad, we all saw this coming,!” Another voice countered. It was confident, and snarky in tone despite the apparent seriousness of the topic.

            “So now I have to share a school with that goat faced son of a-“

            “There are children here, Sinbad, watch the language,” another deep voice scolded, Aladdin and Morgiana shared a look, recognizing the voice of their history teacher. He was no nonsense in the classroom and out.

            “Goat face, really?” The guy laughed, seeming to be the only one amused with the situation beyond the hallway.

            “I guess dad finally told everybody,” the kid beside them mumbles. He turned to meet their dumbfounded expressions and smiled widely. “My name is Kikiriku, my dad’s the principal.”

            “Wow! That’s so cool, my name’s Aladdin, and this pretty lady is Morgiana,” Aladdin volunteered, the bright smile that had warmed Morgiana’s apprehensions that very morning shining on his bright face once more, settling the unease she hadn’t even realized was dwelling within her until it was fleeing, sent running by the luminosity of her friend.

            The shouting in the hallway grew closer, until the purple haired man burst through the door, followed by a white haired male.

            “Alright kids, I’m Sinbad, and I’m your art teacher,” he stated, voice even and teeth bared in a tight smile as he strode through the room..

            “Come on Sinbad,” the white haired man trailing him urged.

            “No Sharr, I’m angry.”

            “Yeahhh, we can all see, and hear, that. You’re not subtle bro,” green eyes surveyed the room, noting the obvious interest and confusion in the kids eyes. Well, those who were conscious anyway.

            “Tell us what’s going on Mr. Sinbad,” a kid asked, piping up from the rear corner of the room. ‘Sharr,’ as Sinbad had called him, glanced sideways at Sinbad before turning, a dramatic swing of his leg as he approached the desk of the student Aladdin had deemed to be unconscious.

            “Sorry guys,” Sinbad started before sitting atop his desk, eyes watching his colleague as the man raised his hands above his head and slammed them down on the kids desk. Startled eyes, a similar shade to the teacher who had disrupted the sleeping youngster, darted about the room when his head shot up, white hair bobbing in its uneven state.

            “Come on Sphintus,” the man drawled, “You’re gonna make me look bad falling asleep everywhere like that, how am I gonna call such a deadbeat my cousin?”

            “I dunno Sharkkan, how am I supposed to call a guy who doesn’t have the balls to ask out a girl _my_ cousin?” Sharkkan mimicked a dagger to the heart.

            “Ah, nice try cos, but my ego is harder to bruise than that!” Sinbad cleared his throat, ending any kind or retort from Sphintus.

            “I apologize, for ruining all your fun earlier,” he glanced pointedly at Sharkkan as he spoke, “So, how about we watch a movie for the first day, how about it?” There was a loud, unanimous, cry of support and Sinbad smiled, rolling his eyes as Sharkkan ran his knuckles of Sphintus’s head before turning to depart. Sinbad smiled, crossing his arms over his broad chest, pulling the white button up he wore tight around his muscular arms.

            Aladdin and Morg could hear mutters, and rather poorly whispered comments, about how attractive their teacher was. Surprisingly, the comments came from males as well as females.

            “Don’t you have a class Sharr?” Sin said when Sharkkan turned to pester his cousin, who had just returned his head to the surface of the desk, turning to start up the projector.

            “I do,” he smiled mischievously, his grin uneven as he uncapped a marker. “Classes haven’t quite started yet, you got a little bit excited,” he went to put the tip of the marker on the dark skin of his cousin but his wrist was caught in a lightning fast movement by the target of his shenanigans, and Sharkkan pouted. “I guess those video games are good for something at least,” Sharkkan laughed, capping the marker and putting it in his blazer pocket. His right hand then finding its place in the back pocket of his jeans. Sharkkan winked at Sinbad before strolling towardsthe door. “See you Sinbad!” He called, waving behind his back as he left. A book then was lobbed down te hall in the direction he had left.

            “Shut up you loud mouth!” A female voice shrieked, blue hair flowing as she passed by the door in a blur of motion, retrieving the book she had just discharged like a weapon.

            “Take off the goggles science nerd!” He hollered back as she stalked past the classroom the kids were in at a much more reasonable pace than the first passing.

            “Take it easy Yamraiha,” Sin called from his place at his desk, currently signing into Netflix.

            “He’s so frustrating!” She cried, walking into the room, absently waving the book around. She used her free hand to pull the goggles away from her eyes, and place them instead atop her aqua hair, turquoise eyes shinning unobstructed by clouded plastic.

            “He likes your attention,” Sin replied, not looking up from his scrolling. Yamraiha was a beautiful woman, clad in a pencil skirt and flowing pink blouse, though the sleeves had been neatly folded back to reveal her bared forearms, trailing down to a pair of latex gloves. Her shell earrings waved as she shook her head, stomping her combat boot on the ground indignantly, Sin rolled his eyes, noting as usual she had decided to wear hideous shoes with a cute outfit. Her eyes were alright with her frustration, and her wrists fell to her hips, the one hand still gripping the book dangerously tight.

            “He doesn’t mean any harm,” Sinbad captured her gaze then, mischief apparent in his expression before he returned to his feet and glided across the room,. “I on the other hand,” he paused, clasping her hand in his, the other taking by the small of her waist and pulling her close, “make no such promises,” he spoke lowly, seductively, and oohs and ahs echoied through the room. She shoved him away then, and he laughed heartily. A scoff could be heard from the hallway as heels of dress shoes clicked, the bearer drifting farther and farther away, but hardly any mind was paid to that presence.

            “Ugh! You perv, you’re just as obnoxious as he is!” she fumed, taking her stormy temper towards the door. “Masrur was right when he called you a womanizer!” The bell rang then and she shrieked, scampering with less than average grace to her own class.

            “Technically he called me an airhead,” he yelled at her retreating form through cupped hands.

            “Uh, Sinbad. What was that about?” Kikiriku asked.

            “Eh. She knows I wasn’t serious. She’s like a sister to me. But, Sharr’s into her and she’s as oblivious as a brick wall, and Masrur keeps having to listen to her cry about never getting a date. I’m trying to make him look a little bit better to her, so maybe she’ll give him a chance.”

            “By making yourself look like a douche?” Another kid volunteered.

            “Its not like it matters much, she’s not my type, and besides that, everyone here is like family to me, “ his eyes held nostalgia and warmth, and Morgiana felt her heart drop, not knowing what it was like to look fondly on memories. “Even if they weren’t, they’re friends of mine, I’ll help in any way I can. I do think I may have rubbed someone the wrong way with that display though,” he mumbled, hand rubbing his chin as he finished.

            “What is your type Mr. Sinbad?!” A girl asked urgently, standing from her seat with her palms planted firmly on the table in front of her. Sinbad laughed good naturedly, before returning to the computer to scroll Netflix.

            “That’s a question for another day. Those two have been dancing around each other for five years-“

            “Five years?! And he hasn’t asked her out yet?!” A girl cried.

            “Not for lack of trying,” Sinbad laughed gently. “He tried, but it went right over her head,” he made a motion of sweeping his hand above his head, his arm outstretched as far as it could reach. “So, what do you guys want to watch?”

~

            Sinbad stretched in his chair, the dismissal bell having rung, and his students chattering as they exited the room. He peered out the window, catching the grey clouds ambling in towards the campus. He couldn’t believe this. Their school, the school he had worked so hard to create, to cultivate, was going to be absorbing Kouen’s group. He was going to have to share halls with _Kouen_ again. As if sharing those halls in University as colleagues wasn’t bad enough, now he had to share them as fellow professionals. Sinbad sighed, noting the last of the stragglers had left the class already. He stood, preparing to shut his door for his planning period when Hinahoho came in.

            “Hey Hina,” Sinbad greeted.

            “Hi Sinbad. How’s the first day treating you?” The larger man asked. He fiddled with the cuffs on his immaculate suit as he approached Sinbad’s desk, having pulled the door mostly closed behind him. Sinbad sat back down atop the desk, reaching around to pull his chair to the front of the desk for Hinahoho, the desks for the children to small to fit the well built principal.

            “It was well before Sharr told me we’re merging with Kou.” Sinbad decided it was best not to beat around the bush, he and Hina had been in this a long time together, they had helped shape the school with their hands, helped lay the foundations together, if he couldn’t be blunt with his oldest co-conspirator, he couldn’t be with anyone. Not to say he didn’t keep his fair share of secrets and dark corners, but when it came to business and professional matters, the two were usually upfront.

            “I didn’t know much before you did, the decision was more the board’s than anyone’s. We’ve gotten such an influx of students lately, something you should be proud of, and they just can’t justify having both campuses open.”

            “I don’t like it. We’ve never done things like they have.”

            “They get good results.”

            “He’s militant! There’s no benefit in schooling kids if you give them anxiety and panic attacks while you’re doing it!”

            “At least they yield results. They’re the only ones even close to us in test scores.”

            “Test scores don’t matter to me,” Sinbad muttered.

            “Yes they do, you’re extremely competitive.”

            “I only care because colleges care. I hate the whole system is based off of exams anyway.”

            “I know Sinbad, you’ve been very vocal about your opinions on the matter,” Hinahoho chuckled. “Maybe one day you’ll be able to revolutionize the education system like you’ve always wanted.”

            “Is it really so bad to want kids to learn, and not just be able to test well,” Sinbad gazed to the window again, his vision seeing far beyond the impending storm, to a future where learning could be something kids enjoyed again, something that flourished instead of was squandered by the system. But that was a fight for another day.

            “I wanted to talk to you about something Sinbad.” He turned to meet the amber eyes of his friend, sensing the tone of his voice and straightening up his posture, prepared to listen.

            “This isn’t about Kouen is it?” Sinbad asked. He had a feeling it wasn’t, and his interest was piqued. Kouen wasn’t at all intriguing. He was just irritating. He was the embodiment of what Sinbad disliked about the system he worked in.

            “It’s not. It’s about the new teacher I hired.” Sinbad learned forward from his seat on the desk, if he could grow another pair of ears he would.

            “What about him?” Sinbad had seen him this morning at the meeting. He had caught Sinbad’s eye right away, and not just because new teacher’s at this school were such a rarity, something the man gave off just beckoned Sinbad to him. The saying “like a moth to a flame” came to mind, but he couldn’t picture a flame in the man. He was a smaller guy, almost boyish in his looks, and with a expression that didn’t seem to move no matter the topic of conversation. As the room laughed, or as the room mourned the losses of the recent war, his expression never wavered. His dark eyes focused forward, but never quite on the person speaking. He was focused, serious, but his gaze held an immense apathy somehow.

            “He’s… well. I brought him on, mostly for Rururmu, he was more her call than mine. He’s been through a lot, and you probably won’t agree with him much either. He’s more of Kouen’s style than yours, but try not to give him too hard of a time. He’s going to have a hard enough time feeling welcome here with students already whispering behind his back.” Sinbad frowned.

            “It’s been half a day, what are they already saying?”

            “Well,” Hinahoho sighed, exasperated already despite the shortness of the conversation. “Like I said, he’s been through a lot. I don’t want to say too much, he’s extremely private, but he’s got a history that some parents aren’t happy about, and have made themselves very vocal.”

            “If it’s such a problem why bring him on in the first place?”

            “He’s like everyone else here Sinbad, he just needs somewhere to belong.” A phone buzzed from his suit pocket. “Gah,” Hinahoho groaned, “Speak of the devil.” He stood then. “We’ll talk soon okay Sinbad?” He waved as he walked away, answering the phone with a practiced authority. Sinbad hopped down from his desk and followed out into the hallway, stopping when he heard a new voice permeating through the door of a classroom. Sinbad peered through the open door as the new teacher leered over one of the students, his voice suddenly stopped and silence rang out. The light haired teacher looked over his shoulder, narrow eyes locking onto a male student texting under the desk, one Sinbad had just had in his own class. Sinbad saw something dark flash in those eyes, flitting briefly across them before he spoke to the kid.

            “What, are you doing?” The tone was curt, somehow rude and polite at the same time. The kid looked up at him almost in disbelief. Sinbad didn’t catch the other words that were exchanged, but he watched as the kid begrudgingly handed over a cell phone with a sheepish, “it won’t happen again, Sir.”

            “As I mentioned, not ten minutes” his voice was cut off as someone whispered

            “God I thought he was going to kill me!” When he turned around this time Sinbad saw pain in those dark eyes, something so raw it made his chest hurt, and the chalk the fair man was holding fell to the ground with a small clink, breaking into two pieces. The emotion was their for a fraction of a second before his expression was schooled again, back to what Sinbad realized was probably an expression of precisely practiced non-expression. He looked at the student that spoke with a cold, venomous look, bending down with his hand splayed on the front of the desk.

            “Do we have a problem?” He asked, his tone no longer clear, but dripping with the dare to defy him. Sinbad decided then he was going to make his presence known, and he pushed the door open, walking into the other’s classroom. He swore he saw the other’s ear twitch the moment his hand hit the handle, and that lean body previously domineering the student straightened, turning towards Sinbad. Dark gray slacks gave way to a forest green shirt, sleeves buttoned at the wrist and a black tie. A similar grey jacket was draped across the desk chair at the back of the room, and dark eyes bore into him as he stood, choosing to learn into the door frame, his own navy shirt unbuttoned two buttons in the front, and his sleeves rolled up above his forearms.

            “Everything all right in here?” Sinbad asked, his eyes scanning the room, holding the kid that seemed to be causing the trouble, a older kid with dreaded hair and infuriated eyes, before meeting the cold expression of his co-worker.

            “Everything is fine,” his voice was ice, and left no room for argument. Sinbad raised an eyebrow, defiance almost his middle name. He walked forward, extending his hand to the man.

            “Name’s Sinbad, I’m across the hall. I used to teach math here.” His hand stayed extended, but the other made no move to reciprocate. As he was just about to feel awkward a pale hand reached forward to grasp his, painfully.

            “Ja’far.” The response was simple, short, and Sinbad smiled.

            “If you don’t mind, I’d like to observe the class today,” Sinbad said, pulling away and already making his way to the back of the room.

            “Do what you like,” Ja’far responded noncommittally, having argued with enough people already. “As I was saying, no cellphones or other electronics in this class, I _will_ confiscate them until the end of the period, and repeat offenders will have their devices given to the principal for release at the end of the _day_. I recommend you do not try my patience. Now, anything else can be read on the syllabus I handed out. Does everyone have a calculator?” His voice was clear, melodic, and Sinbad felt he could listen to Ja’far talk about the history of cheese and still be entertained. “Alright. Now I’m passing back a quiz, please turn it face down when you are finished and wait for me to come collect it.”

            “A quiz already?” Sinbad asked, and almost immediately regretted it as Ja’far stopped midmotion to glare at him.

            “Is that a problem?” He challenged, resuming his activities.

            “It’s the first day,” Sinbad countered, realizing how half-assed of a complaint it was after it left his mouth.

            “And they had Summer assignments did they not?” Sinbad didn’t respond to that, and he thought he may have seen a flicker of an upturn of Ja’far’s lip, satisfied with his silence, and the knowledge that he’d won that challenge.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay and the abrupt chapter end. I had a lot going on with school and my fiancé’s grandmother got diagnosed with cancer. I’m going to try my best to stay on a weekly schedule now. 
> 
> Also, fair warning this fic is probably going to get a lot darker than I planned, and I am going to try my best to make it a part that could be skipped over if you won’t want to read it. As I write that section the rating on the story may change. 
> 
> See you all soon!


	3. Never felt so bleak

 

            “That was way too hard.”

            “I couldn’t answer question one.”

            “Did you do the reading?”

            “I kinda skimmed it…”

            “I read it and I was still lost!”

            Sinbad listened, finger tapping against the desk with less than subtle impatience.

            “All right that’s enough, now, we’ll be starting off with the first lesson.” Ja’far’s momentum never slowed down, he was different than the other teachers that spent the first days easing into topics, acquainting themselves with their students, it wasn’t common to jump right into material on day one, even less so to start off with a quiz. Sinbad’s frown was deepset. He was trying not to show his obvious disdain, to give the man a chance before deciding he didn’t like him. He had grabbed Sinbad’s attention at the meeting, but now that attention was hardly positive. He was cold and distant, he was rigid and unyielding, and Sinbad couldn’t imagine why Hina had deemed him fit for the school they created together. He tried to keep the request he had been given in mind as he observed, but it got harder and harder. These students were his life. He tried with each one of them, to push them to their fullest potential, but with their best interests in mind, with reassurances and with care. He never tried to torment them to success, and he never liked tests to determine whether or not a student understood the material. Tests were biased and unfair, and there were kids who just didn’t test well and that wasn’t their fault. If it were up to him tests would be thrown out of the damn system altogether.

            The bell rang, shocking him out of his reverie, but he made no motion to move. The kids were silent as they made their exit, though they were also packing up quicker than they usually did.

            “Can I help you?” Sinbad looked up, meeting the voice that was quickly becoming his least favorite to hear.

            “You were,” Sinbad paused, willing himself to keep his anger out of his voice, “a little rough on them don’t you think?” His gold eyes met dark ones, and he swore he saw green flash across them.

            “If you have a problem with my methods, take them up with Mr. Hinahoho or keep them to yourself.” Sinbad blew his bangs out of his face, knowing that comment was one of dismissal, and he stood, hand firm on the desk, eyes glued to Ja’far, but the other male showed no such interest. He walked to the front of the room, slowly, willing his emotions to ebb away before he saw the kids again, and gripped the cheap golden doorknob of the exit. He looked back to where Ja’far had been, eyes widening before noticing he’d moved to the back of the room and was already seated at his desk and was sitting with the papers in his hands. Sinbad sighed, releasing the handle before opening it.

            “I have some time still, if you want some help with those papers, some of the kids have some unique handwriting,” Ja’far looked up at him, eyes peering over something Sinbad hadn’t noticed when he had first turned around, a thin framed pair of glasses.

            “I thought you were leaving,” Ja’far said quietly, a little leeway in his tone, not quite dismissive, and not quite inviting.

            “I was being an ass.”

            “You were,” Ja’far gives a small, barely there smile, unsure whether or not he could joke with the man or not. Sinbad walks over to the desk, pulling one of the desks to the front and sitting down. “You look ridiculous,” Ja’far says.

            “These weren’t mean for grown men.”

            “Obviously.”

            “I bet you would fit better,” Sinbad mutters, trying to angle his legs so that he has the least amount of his body pinched by the metal.

            “Pardon me for being an average sized human in your school of giants,” Ja’far mumbles, handing over several papers to Sinbad, ones that he had moved to the back of his pile for the very reasons Sinbad had offered his help, illegible handwriting.

            “Ah. I see Kassim hasn’t improved his handwriting… Or his study habits,” Sinbad groans, leaning back into the chair.

            “He just needs some help.”

            “Believe me, we’ve all tried. The kid is determined not to take any help from us ‘educationally privileged pieces of shit.’”

            “I’m not educationally privileged, and that’s horse shit anyway,” Ja’far says quietly, pinching his nose before pulling the glasses off and setting the papers down. Looking up suddenly at Sinbad, “Sorry.. Forgot who I was with..”

            “It’s alright. He’s hard to handle. He didn’t go to primary school because he had to take care of his sister and mother, so he feels like he’s too far beyond for help and that nobody understands his situation, and he refuses any kind of help. Rurumu has spent hours with him. If she can’t get through to him, well, near no one can.”

            “So you’ve given up on him?” Ja’far’s eyes are hard again, and Sinbad wishes he hadn’t spoken the last bit.

            “No, I’m just trying to say don’t get frustrated if he misbehaves. It’s not you, well not you individually.” Ja’far slides his glasses back on, going back to his quizzes, and making notes in a book to his right. Sinbad goes back to his own, then looks back up.

            “Do you want me to mark them, or would you like me to write down what he wrote, like a translation of sorts,” Ja’far looks up, surprise on his face and Sinbad smiles.

            “The, ‘translation,’ would be very helpful,” he says, opening a drawer and passing a separate notebook over to Sinbad. Sinbad smiles again, writing down Kassim’s responses on the lined paper, and at the bottom of the page, he writes a little note for Ja’far. He does a few more pages, none of them quite as rough as the first one and then he looks up at Ja’far again, watching dark eyes move over the pages, white bangs fluttering up as he blows air out of his mouth, eyebrows furrowing as he marks down the page, moving again to write a note in the book off to the side. His gaze flicks back to the page, his hand going to push his glasses further up his freckled nose, and Sinbad notices as his sleeve falls down, and just below his wrist bone lay a litany of scars, barely discernable with how light they were on his already pale skin. Ja’far absently tugs the sleeve back up, still focused on his pages, and Sinbad struggles to swallow, his breath caught in his throat, wanting to ask but knowing the male would shut down and throw him out.

            The bell rings, giving Sinbad a much needed thought clearing and Ja’far looks up to the clock, and then to Sinbad.

            “Thank you..” Ja’far says quietly, standing up and holding his hand out for the papers Sinbad had.

            “If you need help again, you know where to find me,” Sinbad says, relinquishing the notebook and the quizzes, feeling Ja’far’s fingers brush his, feeling like he’d just gotten to close to an outlet and been shocked for his proximity.

            “I don’t actually,” Ja’far says as he pulls back. Sinbad smiles, jutting his thumb out behind him.

            “I’m across the hall, room 107.”

            “You’re the one that was making all the noise this morning.”

            “Technically that was Sharr and Yamu. But yes, they were in my classroom.”

            “Some friends you have there.”

            “They disagree, loudly. But they’re both good teachers, and good people.” Ja’far nods. “I’ll see you around, Ja’far.” Sinbad says as he leaves. The door clicks closed and Ja’far drops the book on the nearby desk, his hand rising to clutch at his shirt, above his heart, not knowing what to do with the pressure he could feel, swelling in his chest and making it hard to breathe.

            “1… 2… 3…,” he counts, forcing himself to take deep breaths, despite the protests his lungs give. He feels his legs get weak, the lack of air starting to affect him. He falls to his knees, barely registering the pain as he hits the tiles, not getting any more air despite how he tries. “Shit… Shit shit shit,” he curses. Tears fall from his eyes, splashing on the tiles, and he feels his chest wheeze. He squeezes his eyes shut, “come on.” He raises his fist, bringing it down against the ground so hard he almost felt his bones collide. He opens his eyes again, his vision blurring on the edges. His phone starts ringing, but he can’t get off the ground. He tries timing his breathe with the annoying beeps, inhaling as the rings start, exhaling as the rings pause. His fingernails scratch against the tile as he struggles, slowly, his feeling starts returning to his legs, and his vision clearing. He releases his shirt, falling back on his heels and attempting to straighten the wrinkles out of his button up. He stands up, reaching for his phone just as a knock resounds on the door.

            “Ja’far?”

            “Yes?” He replies, wiping his palms on his eyes as the door opens.

            “Hello Ja’far, how are you doing?”

            “I’m doing well Sir, and yourself?”

            “Doing well, thought I’d check in on you, make sure you’re adjusting well.”

            “I am.”

            “I’ll let you get back to your work then,” Hinahoho turns to leave before turning back smiling gently, “oh, and Rurumu wanted me to let you know she’s down the hall in the counselor’s office if you eve need anything.”

            “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.” The door closes and Ja’far sinks into his chair. Hand resting over his eyes, and he sighs. “It’s been six months, why now?” _Why now, why all of a sudden, why does his touch, make me panic like that. Why..?_ Fresh tears spill down his cheeks and his voice hiccups. _Please… Make it stop…_

           

            “Alright! My name is Sharkkhan and I’ll be teaching P.E.!”

            “Sir, why do you have a empty snake tank, in a gymnasium?” One kid asked, several others still holding their ears from their whistle-enthusiastic greeting.

            “It’s not- oh no. Where is it?! All right! First task, find the snake, it’s a cobra about yay big,” and then the children started screaming. “Come on he’s harmless! But he is an expert at getting out and Sphintus will kill me if he gets outside, so somebody- ah nevermind. Sphintus, put the snake _back!_ ”

            “Why does he have a snake?” Aladdin asks, prodding a blonde kid in the back. The kid swats his hand away before turning, wide blue eyes fixated on the offending limb. “Sorry miss I” Aladdin starts before he gets cut off.

            “Miss? Thank you _very_ much, I am Titus Alexius, _son_ of one of the most _influential_ politicians in this country.”

            “Uh, ok.”

            “What do you mean ‘uh ok?’”

            “I don’t really get that kind of stuff. You’re really pretty for a boy though,” Aladdin shrugs.

            “Hey Titus, everything alright?” The dark skinned, light haired boy with the snake earlier approached the two.

            “It’s fine,” Titus says with a flip of his hand, “this one just called me a girl though.”

            “Ahah! Well you can hardly blame him, not gonna lie Sharr and I thought the same when we first saw you,” Sphintus laughs, wiping his eyes of imaginary tears. Aladdin cringes, waiting for Titus to get mad at Sphintus as well, but he doesn’t. A smile works its way onto his pale face, and Aladdin finds his growing in response.

            “All right kiddos! Today we are going to do sparring matches, everyone break off into groups, you better find one or you’ll end up _MY_ partner!” Sharkkhan flicks his wrist, brandishing the wooden weapon to his side with a flourish, “and you probably don’t want that.” His eyes shine with mischief, one brow cocked up and Sphintus makes a gagging sound beside Titus and Aladdin.

            Half the kids were panting on the floor, the other half alight with excitement. Aladdin was one of the ones on the floor, and Titus was practically glowing.

            “You aren’t half bad,” Sharkkhan comments, “but you,” he nudges Aladdin with his sandaled foot, “seriously need a little muscle. You act like spongebob lifting teddy bear weights.” Aladdin whines indiscernibly, before lifting his head up to reply.

            “You would like Morg. She’s a very strong friend of mine.”

            “You should have her help you out some then, you’ll get in shape one way or another!”

            “Round is a shape,” Aladdin mutters before dropping his head back down. Sharkkhan walks back to the front after checking up on some more duos, giving praise and criticisms as fit. He pulls his phone from his pocket, seeing a text from Sinbad.

            _Up for lunch Sharr? ;)_

**Emoticon? Really?** He buzzes back.

            _Fine. No smiles for you. No wonder you can’t get a date. :P_

**No. I’m just not fourteen.**

_;) :P ;) :P ;) Smile attack you scrooge_

**Screw you.**

_You wish._

**Not even close.**

_I know._

_…_

_Yamraiha though_

**Shut up.**

_Maybe if you_ talked _instead of shouted at her, you’d get farther._

**She starts it!**

_Whose fourteen now?_

_;)_

Sharkkhan pockets the phone again just before the bell rings.

 

            “Hey,” Sinbad says, pushing the door open.

            “Don’t you knock?” Ja’far replies, peering over glasses again, though a faint smile graces his lips. Sinbad notices the man looks spent despite the somewhat friendly greeting, and his shirt is wrinkled in the front, hair turned up in odd directions, almost the opposite of the pristine composure he had held several hours ago. Sinbad steps forwards and he sees the faintest twitch of the man’s hand, and apprehensions linger behind his eyes.

            “Are you ok?” Sinbad doesn’t move to get any closer, knowing all too well the look of someone on the brink of feeling cornered, and somehow the dark eyes that were glued to him were reminiscent of a frightened cat who hadn’t decided whether to hiss and bite or let you come closer.

            “I’m quite fine. Did you need something?” Sinbad runs a hand through his fringe, thoughts racing through his mind, trying to discern where something went wrong. They had seemed to be doing well before he left, friendly even, and now Ja’far was aloof again, as if almost anything in the world was better than talking to Sinbad.

            “Ah, I was going to see if you wanted to join us for lunch, a couple of the teachers and I meet in my classroom for lunch when we aren’t on cafeteria duty. Thought I’d see if you wanted to – well – join us,” Sinbad frowned, he could not have spat that out more ineloquently. Ja’far’s refound coldness had thrown him for a loop, and he didn’t recover from it well.

            “Thank you, but I’m fine. I still have some things to take care of after all.” Ja’far had gone back to looking at whatever papers where on his desk, how someone had so much to do on the first day of school Sinbad had no fathomable idea, but somehow Ja’far had made himself quite busy.

            “Maybe next time then,” Sinbad offers halfheartedly. “Can I ask you something?” He decides to add before considering the conversation a lost cause.

            “If you must,” he says, flipping a page quicker than was probably necessary.

            “The test you did, you were looking for their weak spots, not just if they had done reading or not. I saw you taking notes,” Ja’far was looking at him out of the corner of his eye as he filed something away.

            “What of it?”

            “Nothing. I just, think I misjudged you at first.” For the second time that day, Sinbad wishes he could pull words out of the air and back into his mouth, where his foot seemed to be residing, watching Ja’far’s shoulders fall and his head, held so proud just that morning, drop further, creating an image of a soundly tired, and _broken_ looking man as those words reach his ears, physically pains him. He doesn’t understand _why_ , deeming it to be the blame of his excessive empathy, but another part of him tells him its more than that, but what more, he isn’t quite ready to label.

            “Most people do,” Ja’far says quietly, soft voice just above a whisper before pushing the drawer closed, having finished his task, but not turning to the front. Sinbad takes the awkward, and heavy silence to be his cue to exit, and so he does, pulling the door most of the way shut, but not closing it completely, as he crosses the hall.

            Ja’far lets out a shaky breath, his hand trembling slightly as he closes it over the armrest of his chair. He pulls the lunch he brought from the fridge, as well as a bottle of water, and proceeds to down half the bottle, tossing the food to the garbage beside his desk.

            _Sinbad… Why is he so difficult to be around, will it be like that with everyone here? Will it always be this hard around men like that? And why… Why does that name, sound vaguely familiar…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter down, and moving right along. I have like, the middle section of this planned, but I just need to get there first, Exposition is not my strong suit. 
> 
> See you next time!


	4. I feel it drop and freeze

**First off, I just wanna say thanks to everyone reading, anyone following and reviewing, it means a lot and I hope you guys keep enjoying the story! I tried to make it a little longer to make up for it being a little bit late.**

 

Several days had passed in reasonable normalcy. There were less shouts down the hallways, and less classroom interruptions. Everyone finding their own pace and settling into their own cliques. School had begun that year on a Wednesday, and they now found themselves in the first Friday of the school year. The energy was high, the kids ready for the weekend, and Sinbad, ready for his plans to hit the bar with Sharkkhan and Masrur. He and MAsrur could both drink Sharkkhan under the table. Masrur was a beast, and Sinbad had remarkable tolerance built up. He sat in his classroom that morning, his shirt unbuttoned, and a dark v-neck tucked into the waistband of his grey trousers, fitted to his built chest was layered underneath. He had a sketchpad in hand, but the pages were blank, the pencil twiddling idly between his calloused fingertips.

            He glanced to the window, watching as the first driving students trickled into the parking lot for the day, a couple teens lingering about, leaning against the vehicles they slaved over and chatting with the friends they had made in the first few days. He closed the sketchbook, tucking it under his arm and standing, tucking his pencil behind his ear he left the room, pulling it almost all the way, but not quite fully shut, behind him. He made a right, his dress shoes making a soft clack against the tile as he walked, he looked down, checking the time on his watch, an old hand-me-down from his father, nothing special, but functional, and one of the few reminders he had of the man pulled from him. His father had passed in the first rounds of the war the country was currently engaged in. Badr had served in his prime, and had been re-selected when the war began, drafted and pulled from his family. Sinbad looked up just in time to see Ja’far pass him, and he stopped, feet locked in their position on the floor, stopped dead in his track by the look on Ja’far’s face. His eyes were wide, and his brows were angled harshly, his mouth slightly parted, and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. His pallor was almost grey the way it lacked color, his skin pulled tight across the bone, looking more like a ghost than a man. Despite the unhealthy state of his mind, his clothes were impeccable but his hair was disheveled and mussed, and he clutched a parcel desperately to his chest. He walked silently forward, his shoes not making a sound as they moved across the ground, and he continued as if he hadn’t seen Sinbad at all, as if it were him alone, him and whatever demons plagued his mind.

            “Hey!” Sinbad called, unable to bear watching the other man walk away with such an expression on his face, and Ja’far turned to look at him, and it was almost like a different person. The dark circles of sleepless nights still ghosted above his freckled cheekbones, but somehow, despite the improbability of it, his skin had a new life to it, pale as ever, but looking human again, and a gentle smile was across his chapped lips, though his brows were upturned in confusion, and the parcel was now tucked behind his back, out of immediate sight.

            “Hello Sin.” He greeted,

            “Hi,” Sinbad repeated.

            “Yes, you said that already.” Sinbad laughed, stepping forward, closing the distance between the two, while still maintaining a safe bubble for the smaller man. “What are you doing?” He asked, and Sinbad could hardly think, his brain still trying to catch up to what he had just seen.

            “I was going to stop in and see Drakon, couldn’t focus you see,” he said, waving his sketchpad for emphasis. “To be honest, haven’t been able to come up with something in awhile, lame huh,” he goes to rub the back of his neck, forgetting he still had the sketchbook, knocking himself in the skull instead, and to his surprise, a gentle, melodic little laugh hits his ears, and he looks up to see Ja’far chuckling behind his hand, a terribly endearing sight, and Sinbad longs for more of it. To see more smiles on that porcelain face, to do anything to cast away the expression he had seen on him moments before.

            “It’s not like I spend my time developing new theorems,” he says. “What do you usually draw?”

            “Depends on the medium, paintings are usually abstract, sketches, well, I used to draw my mother a lot. She’s ill now, so it’s more painful than anything to draw her. She probably won’t be around much longer.”

            “I’m sorry-“ Ja’far stopped, not knowing what else to say. He didn’t know how to give condolences to someone grieving a parent. His had been, well, he hadn’t mourned their losses at all.

            “It’s, well, it’s not alright, but thanks. I was trying to think of something for the kids to do today.”

            “Have them draw you,” Ja’far suggests with a shrug, then makes a move to step away before speaking up again. “Do you want to talk some more?” Sinbad all but gawks at the open invitation.

            “Did you have something you needed to do?” He asks, trying not to get in the way of any obligations he may have, despite his eagerness to continue the civilized conversation while it was just that, civilized, and even, friendly.

            “Not particularly. I finished most of it last night,” _I guess that explains the circles,_ Sinbad thinks, though he can’t help but think it looks like more than just one late night doing papers, like something deep rooted, something that’s been eating at him for longer than the few days that school has been in session. Sinbad stretches out his arm, giving a dramatic _after you_ gesture, noticing how warily Ja’far’s eyes watched the offending limb, and letting out a breath of relief when it didn’t seem to set him off in any way. “So, are you going to model for your class?” Ja’far asks, peering back over his shoulder at Sinbad while he fishes keys out of his jacket pocket.

            “It’s a really good idea actually, I’m sure they would enjoy that, plus it’s a good experience, working with something that can fidget and adjust, rather than a still life or photograph. Thanks Ja’far,” he smiles brightly and a light pink brushes Ja’far’s nose just as the key turns over the lock, and he’s frozen for a moment, looking up at the beaming smile and golden gaze before he snaps back into focus.

“Happy to help,” he rushes out, his wrist twisting to open the door and proceeding to glide inside, pushing some distance between the two, waiting until the blush fades to face Sinbad again, thankful the man doesn’t seem to have noticed his odd lapse of behavior. “Though I’m afraid it only solves one of your problems.” He notes, tucking the parcel he had been holding into a drawer of his desk.

“That’s true,” Sinbad says, twisting around one of the desks to sit in. “You should get another chair in here,” he says and Ja’far laughs again.

“Is that you saying you’ll be a regular presence in my classroom?” Ja’far asks with a quirked eyebrow, and Sinbad shrugs in response, trying to play cool the giddiness cartwheeling around in his chest at the acceptance of his continued presence. He wondered how long it would be this time before Ja’far flipped on him, and moved to being less than tolerant. He was terribly hard to read, and even harder to understand, and for some reason, Sinbad longed to be able to piece together that puzzle, to be able to understand what made the wheels turn in his head, what made brought him here, and maybe one day, know about the experiences Hinahoho had alluded to the first day.

            Sinbad smiled at him, watching as the man turned his attention to unpacking his khaki messenger bag. His eyes were a strange color, they seemed to be blacker than the darkest shade an artist could create, but that still managed to glint green in the light, like a color he couldn’t possibly describe or create. He was slender, but not a fragile slender, and not a breakable slender. His face was soft when he wasn’t paying attention, his features gentle and warm, but easily sharpened like the blade of a knife when he was irate.

            He thumbed over his sketchpad, pulling his pencil from behind his ear and twirling it around his fingers. Ja’far had wound a piece of hair around his finger and was tugging on it gently as he scratched up a piece of paper on the desk.

            They still had awhile before the first bell would ring, and Sinbad was fairly sure Ja’far’s first period was open anyway, as was his own. His eyes continued to study the man’s face, the delicate splash of freckles across his nose. Ja’far pulled off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes, and dropping them unceremoniously on the desk before laying back, head to the ceiling and palms on his eyes, back arched in the chair.

            Sinbad got another glance then, of the marks crisscrossing the wrist facing him, though Sinbad was almost certain the small glimpse he had gotten the other day was on the other wrist. He frowned, knowing that if his memory served him, that there were matching scars on each wrist, and many, even more disappearing into the shadows and security of the sleeves of his jacket.

            “Are you alright?” Sinbad asks, resting his elbow on his knee and halting the movements of his pencil holding hand. Ja’far was silent for some time before he gave a long exhale and let his arms fall to his sides.

            “Didn’t sleep well.”

            “Any reason why?”

            “No.” Ja’far pauses, eyes still on the ceiling, but Sinbad felt like there was something there, something he wasn’t willing to share, and not something that would get vocalized if he continued to push. “Are you drawing something?” Sinbad looks down, realizing at some point he had stopped twirling the pencil, and had started drawing with it instead, and realizing he had been drawing the enigma of a man in front of him. One in the upper corner, of Ja’far’s pensive yet gentle gaze as he was enamored with reading, and the other, of the distressed position he had just been in, elbows and gaze towards the ceiling.

            “Uh..”

            “Eloquent, may I?” Ja’far had stood, and was standing in front of Sinbad, not looking at the sketchbook, keeping his gaze locked on Sinbad’s face. Sin closes the book, a little hastier than he had planned, previously hoping to do it in a subtle manner, and guessing that it didn’t come off as subtle at all.

            “I just remembered, I have a student I’m supposed to meet this morning, I should get to my class, she won’t know to look for me in here,” Sinbad rushes out in a single breath, standing, arching sideways so he could get around the desk and stay away from Ja’far, nearly knocking it over in the process, the metal scraping against the tile in a horrible grating sound that made him wince, though his companion showed no signs of it bothering him. “I’ll see you,” Sinbad says, putting his fingers to his head in a mock salute before making his way to the door.

            He pulls it shut behind him, scampering down the hall to his escape, going past his own room, needing to put some more distance between him and Ja’far than the two of their classrooms allowed.

            As he had expected, the kids had been more than happy to accept him as their model, especially when he told them it could be open medium. Colored pencil, watercolor, charcoal, whatever they wanted was fair game for this one. He told them they would have the week, and he would maintain a similar pose each day for them to work on their projects, and if they needed extra time he was always willing to stay before or after school.

            “Mr. Sinbad?” One of his kids, Marga, asks him at the end up class.

            “What is it dear?” He asks, leaning on his desk, sleeves rolled up and the top half of his shirt unbuttoned.

            “One of the other kids said you used to teach math here, is that true Sir?” She asked. The girl was tiny, red headed and bearing pigtails. She was slow to start on her work, he had seen her glancing between him and a blank piece of paper for more than half of the class before she had actually put a utensil to it.

            “I did, your friend was right. Is there something you needed?” He smiled at her, trying to ease her obvious anxiety.

            “I was wondering if you could maybe tutor me sir? I’m a bit behind, I was ill a lot my prior year, and I didn’t do very well, so I’m already kind of lost with the material…”

            “Is there something wrong with Ja’far?”

            “Um.. No.. There’s not… He kind of… Scares me though.”

            “I’d be happy to tutor you dear, but trust me,” he puts his hand on her shoulder, a move he finds himself performing quite often, both with students and friends, he feels like it puts people at ease, except Ja’far. He feels like if he would touch Ja’far, he would lose his hand, “but trust me, he’s not nearly as scary as he seems. He’d be more than happy to help you. If you still would rather me tutor you, I’ll be here after school and in the morning, and I’ll do my best. I’m not sure what lessons he’s teaching right now though.”

            “I have all my notes, I just don’t really understand them.” He clasps his hands together.

            “Wonderful! Alright, well go on to your next class, give it a chance with Ja’far though, at least talk to him, I promise he’ll help you.” Sinbad crosses his fingers mentally, hoping that he was right about what he thought was going on with the guy, despite his appearances during class time itself, that he was willing to help and was trying very hard for those kids, he was just doing it behind the scenes.

            The girl smiles at him, a small nervous smile on her face as she nods at him and slings an oversized backpack over her shoulder and runs to a blonde boy waited by his door for her. Her small smile expands to a beaming light as she looks up at him. Sinbad smiles, it always gets to him when he sees the friendships kids form here.

            He moved around to behind his desk, slinking into his chair, reaching for the sketchpad that had caused the problems this morning. He opens it up, looking at the pieces he’d done, wondering how he had created it without looking down, or had he, maybe he just hadn’t noticed he was doing it. He didn’t know, all he knew was the charcoal lines on the pad were some of the best work he’d done in a month, something he’d created in less than an hour while not paying attention. The dark eyes, the creases of his brow, the set of his mouth, and on the second, the scars on his wrist.

The main reason he had kept it from Ja’far, he had a sinking feeling the man would not like him knowing about them. From what he’d seen, Ja’far went through a good amount of effort hiding them, and he felt like he would lose all of the progress he had made so far. Hell, he barely knew Ja’far, it may weird him out just to have Sinbad drawing him at all. _Fuck_. He raked his fingers through his hair.

            _This is about to blow up in my face._

 

About a week after classes began, and after Sinbad had been broken the news about the merge, the reality began, and about a week since he had spent time with Ja’far, and every time that went through Sinbad’s mind he winced mentally, feeling like a shit person for avoiding him. The girl Marga never had come to him though, he assumed she was able to get Ja’far to help her. He shook his head, walking through the door Monday morning, to be immediately greeted by the intercom calling all staff to the cafeteria for a meeting.

Sinbad groaned before turning around, and almost walking straight into Ja’far himself, the latter who simply sidestepped gracefully out of the way, and without a glance up or word spoken, continued on his way. Sinbad spun around in a circle, groaning louder and pulling his hair as he ran his fingers through it.

He swung open the cafeteria door, his footsteps a little to heavily than they usually are, his legs weighed down with his anger and frustration, only to be met with the red eyes of none other than Ren Kouen.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Sinbad grits out, the door not even closed before he’s reaching for it again to leave.

“Sinbad,” Hinahoho calls and Sinbad turns his head, irritated gaze falling on his superior.

“I don’t need to be here for this,” he growls turning forward when he feels a painfully tight grip on his wrist, and looks down to see rather dainty, very pale fingers gripping him so hard the tendons practically are jumping out of his skin.

“Sinbad, sit down, close your god damn mouth, and listen like an adult, now get _out_ of my way,” Sinbad pulls away, inadvertently bringing himself into the room to get out of the way of the field of vision that simultaneously looks like it could freeze hell and burn Antarctica in black hell fire.

“I see you haven’t changed Sinbad,” a gravelly voice comments, and Sinbad turns to glare at Kouen, seeing Ja’far out of the corner of his eyes, he sits down in the farthest seat from the offending red haired man, with Ja’far having seated himself somewhere in the middle of the two.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Sinbad says, not bothering to look at the man. He saw the blue eyed cousin of Kouen, shooting concerned looks around the room, biting her pink lips and crossing and uncrossing her legs. Sinbad looks to her, trying his best to wipe the disdain from his face, and winks at her. She turns her chin up at him, but he sees her cheeks are still dusted a light pink, though she tried to hide it. He smiled, taking his chances and looking at Kouen, giving him a charmed smile and shoulder shrug, before going back to ignoring him.

“Dang Sinbad, playing with fire aren’t you?” Sharkkhan comments, obviously enjoying the tension and antagonism, thriving on chaos and anarchy, being quite the conductor for it himself.

“Alright, are you two finished?” Hinahoho spoke from the front. “Now, let’s get this over with so everyone can get back to their planning.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap for this chapter. I’ve already got half of the next chapter written, so you should expect to see it in a week, take care, review if you like, and I’ll see you all soon!  
> Asthmatic Glader


	5. I'm breaking yet unbreakable

The meeting was pretty brief, and Sinbad had spent a good portion of it with his gaze ambling places that were not his superior. He couldn’t help it, he had made it fairly well known his position on this merge, and he wasn’t about to change that, or act amicably to people in his territory when they _obviously_ weren’t prepared to do the same. Sinbad had gotten held back after the meeting concluded.

            “Sinbad, I need you to conduct yourself better, you’re a professional, and this is a professional environment, and I understand you and Kouen don’t get along, and I put him and his cousin’s classroom as far from yours as feasibly possible, but you have to be civil.”

            “I know, I’m sorry Hina. Thanks for that though, you didn’t have to.”

            “I’m pretty sure I did, you two are likely to kill each other if you’re too close.”

            “In a different world probably, he’s not worth a life in jail though. I’m too pretty for jail.” Hinahoho scoffs at that, and smiles at him before getting serious again.

            “Another thing then, what the hell did you do to make Ja’far so angry?” Sinbad groans, flopping into one of the chairs.

            “I was drawing him, and freaked out and acted like a spaz of a teenage girl when he asked to see it.”

            “That’s not bad.”

            “I then avoided him all week,” Sinbad muttered.

            “You really are a child aren’t you.” Sinbad looked up at him, and Hinahoho just laughed. “Talk to him you idiot. Now get out of here, go do some work kid.” Sinbad smiled, getting up and making his way to his classroom, feeling a little but better about his screw up the prior week, feeling like everything may still be salvageable.

            Before he made it though, his day was ruined. Standing outside Ja’far’s classroom, was the one he hoped to reconcile with, and his least favorite person, probably in the world. He did what was _obviously_ the best option at the time, and walks up to the duo with a but too much determination and gives a slightly hostile look down to Ja’far.

            “Can I talk to you Ja’far?” He says, and Ja’far, who had not spared him a glance, finally pulled away from looking at Kouen to meet his displeased expression.

            “I’m in the middle of a conversation right now, or did you not notice?” Sinbad wanted to punch a wall, he was at square negative one with Ja’far, and sharing a school with Kouen. “It’s not like you wanted to talk to me the last seven days,” he bit before turning away. Sinbad turned, walking away without another word, to his class and slamming the door behind him.

            “Fuckshitass for the love of Solomon whathteshit!” He all but screams, exasperated by the string of bad decisions he made since he walked in the door. For some reason, the two people he had just made an imbecile out of himself in front of where the ones capable of undoing all forms of rational reasoning and behavior for him.

            He groaned rather loudly, falling into his chair and letting his head fall gracelessly onto the desktop. He probably would have had less of a fallout if he had just shown him the damn drawing in the first place, and let well enough be. But no, he had to shove his spectacularly large foot in his even larger mouth and then keep it there for the better part of a week, and decide while his person of interest was _in another conversation_ was the best time to approach him.

            A knock at his door interrupted his inner berating, and though he felt no desire to entertain either colleagues or students, he gave a call for them to enter.

            “Hello Sinbad,” he considers flopping his head back on the desk at the honey sweet voice in his doorway, but plasters on what he hopes is a charming smile and gestures for her to come in.

            “Miss Hakuei, how are you?” He asks, doing his damndest to keep the frustration out of his tone, and he’s a little bit impressed with himself at how normal the words come out, especially given his current company. Though, she is roughly a hundred times preferred to _Kouen_. From what he understands, Hakuei leans more on Sinbad’s side of things than she does her errant cousin. His fights a frown at the thought of the Ren family, the part that extended past teachers, and the students they would also be adopting. They were all odd in their own ways. Kouha managed to knock _someone’s_ tooth out everytime he got on the field, not to mention his violent inciting behavior while in the hallways, Kougyoku was damn near agoraphobic, Hakuryuu and Judar were inseparable, and Judar was anarchy personified.

            “I’m well, adjusting,” she offers a small smile and he gives what he hopes seem to be a sympathetic look.

            “Was there something I could help you with?” He asks, propping his chin in his hand as he looked at her. Oddly enough, he was finding it easier to push his earlier resentment aside as he spoke, the words coming a bit easier and getting less processing before he was able to form sentences that didn’t sound harsh and rude.

            “Not in specifics, I just thought it would be good to break the ice sooner rather than later. You’re reaction to the meeting didn’t go unnoticed.” He winced, as much as he hated Kouen, he also hated coming off as rude in front of ladies. He also probably didn’t give the best impression in front of Ja’far this morning, not that the slighter male was sunshine personified himself…

            “I assure you none of that was directed at you, Kouen and I have a past, that has been less than smooth,” he offered. She was probably at least remotely aware, they seemed like a fairly close family, and if Kouen ranted about Sinbad one tenth of the amount that Sinbad ranted about Kouen, then there was no doubt his name was well known in that circle.

            “I can’t say that I’m completely unaware,” she says, smiling with a small amount of fondness he felt was misplaced given the conversation. “I’d love to hear more about it one of these days. He’s a cryptic man, and one of few words.”

            “Another day perhaps, I’m afraid this morning I’ll be needing to start prepping for class soon.”

            “Of course, I wouldn’t dare impeded that,” she says, standing and extending a manicured hand over his desk, and in his direction. He took it, gently shaking it, “I look forward to working with you Sinbad.”

            “And I with you,” he says, releasing her and she turns, heels clicking and dark hair, wrapping in a loose falling braid falling over her shoulder as she departs. Sinbad had fibbed slightly, he had more time than he had let on, and his first period was open regardless, not to say he didn’t occasionally get students come in who were in study periods, but as for class preparations he still had some time before that was necessary.

            He found himself reaching for the used sketchbook in his drawer, the pages stained with lead and charcoal on the edges, the cover bent back in places from where it had been haphazardly shoved in backpacks and underneath other things. He starts scrawling on a blank page, not really thinking about what he was drawing until he realized what was coming into focus in front of him, dark eyes and soft features and feathery hair and he flops it closed, flipping it back onto the desk with distaste.

            He stands, moving from his office with purpose in his stride, tacking a note onto the door that said he would be back shortly. He went to the restroom, aiming to splash water in his face, clear the images out of his head, knowing it was unlikely to happen but needing the fresh blast nonetheless. He gave a few splashes of cold, as cold as it gets from a faucet in this school anyway, in his face, and drying off with the coarse brown paper towel before heading out, and brushing shoulders with a lanky man that looked asleep on his feet.

            They didn’t share any words, barely shared a glance before each continued on with their respective paths. Sinbad then found himself behind a very tall, very slim teenager with thick black hair that he guaranteed should not be just wandering the hallways right now. He crushed his fingers to his temple, already over this day and not in any mood to deal with actual things before picking up his pace and calling after the kid.

            “Just what do you think you’re doing,” Sinbad says, and the boy turns, eyes with thick liner and dark eye shadow brimming red irises and a grin that wouldn’t look out of place on the Cheshire cat itself.

            “On my way to see a teacher, mind your own business,” he snarks and Sinbad drops hands on his hips.

            “Do you have a hall pass kid?” He asks, already a mile past being done with this morning.

            “Wow you have a stick up your ass don’t you blue jeans,” it’s at that point Ja’far’s door opens, and now his least favorite person has joined them in the hall, as well as his least biggest fan at the moment, and Sinbad mentally shoots himself.

            “What are you doing Judar?” Kouen says, his face betraying no smidgen of emotion, practiced apathy gracing his stupid face with his stupid goatee and Ja’far just stood, arms crossed, looking about as thrilled as Sinbad was regarding the situation.

            “Coming to see you of course, who’s the blanket?” He says, jutting a thumb in Ja’far’s direction. Ja’far’s face darkens, and Sinbad has to do everything in his power not to face palm there in the hallway. He’s debating whether or not he could sneak away to his own classroom without disaster, and decides that karma has already proven it is decisively against him this morning, and it is better to not tempt it to make things worse for himself.

            “I’m your math teacher, watch yourself,” Ja’far says dangerously, and Sinbad gives a mental fist pump at snark not directed at himself and at Jaf’ar shutting down this annoying brat.

            “This is Ja’far, try not to be _too_ much of a problem Judar, save it for Hakuyruu or Koumei,” Kouen warns and Sinbad doesn’t like that comment. He doesn’t like that he’s speaking on behalf of Ja’far, he doesn’t like that he’s redirecting the shit’s behavior instead of squashing it altogether. From the first word out of his mouth he’s been disrespect and annoyance, and Sinbad is seeing why he seems to think that behavior is ok.

            “Or you could buckle down and grow up, and treat your teachers with some respect in general,” Sinbad says lowly, and the other three regard him as if they had forgotten he was a part of the conversation at all.

            “Come now Judar, let’s go,” Kouen says, a heavy hand falling on the red eyed adolescent, giving a gentle shove down the hall in the direction Judar had come from in the first place, before turning back to look at a still icy Ja’far. “Think about my offer won’t you?” He doesn’t wait for any kind of response before turning back away, and by the time Sinbad looks back at Ja’far he’s halfway back in his classroom with the door falling closed.

Against his better judgment, Sinbad throws himself through the door, landing awkwardly in the doorway while Ja’far is already all the way to his desk.

“What do you want?” He asks coldly, his jacket thrown over the back of the chair, his sleeves still buttoned to his the ends of his wrists, his tie slightly askew, and hair disheveled, leaning back on his desk, hand gripping the edge with enough force to lighten his already almost white skin of his knuckles, jaw tense and eyes so dark it seemed they were actually sucking in color, and his green shirt striking against his pale skin. The light from the window casting a halo on part of him, and dark shadow on the other, creating an image of contrast that awed Sinbad’s artistic brain.

He waited probably longer than general social construct would deem reasonable, too caught up in drowning in the details of the male before him, cataloguing features, long legs and slender waist, the fair frame that somehow still emanated strength and lethality. As gentle as his features would lead one to believe, his posture and features led one to draw the opposite conclusion, and Sinbad couldn’t pinpoint why he was so captivated by him.

Why after a Summer of creative block, his best work even preceding the block was a quick unfocused sketch of this man. He was attractive, that much was undeniable, but there had to be more. Sinbad saw countless attractive people, hell he worked with a school of them, there wasn’t anyone he worked with that was unattractive. Not to mention his endless supply of conventionally pretty faces available to him on the internet, though maybe that was the attraction, that he was unconventional. He wasn’t tanned, or full figured, and he looked like his eyes had stories that could fill many late nights, and he imagined there were more secrets beneath the layers he shielded himself with, both literally and metaphorically. It was all hypothetical though, Sinbad couldn’t put into words why, he just knew. He was like a magnet, drawing him in against better reason, doing things that were completely contrary to what would be a good idea.

“Look, I’m sorry.”

“Oh. You’re sorry?” Ja’far mocks, his icy tone cutting right through Sinbad’s flimsy words.

“Can you cut me a break here? I’m trying to apologize?” Ja’far huffs, rubbing his hands down his face, giving another small glimpse at the scars on his wrists before his arms fall limply at his side and his expression is a little less guarded.

“All right. Fine. Sorry,” he quips, crossing his arms again, though it is less in a closed off type of gesture, and more of a comfort place, somewhere to place hands that were getting to antsy.

“I reacted poorly, and I’m sorry I avoided you. I’m.. private about my work,” he lies. He’s really not, but he is of that one, and he hopes his tissue thick excuse will work as a foundation for fixing things. Though, forming bridges an poor foundations is a bad idea, and leaves room for fallout, but right now he’s just trying, and he doesn’t want to jump out of this fight just to jump into another one.

“Your works are all over the halls of the school.”

“You noticed that?” Ja’far rolls his eyes.

            “I’m remarkably observant.”

            “Okay fine,” he draws in a deep breath, “I drew you, and I panicked because I didn’t know how you would react and then I didn’t know how to deal with it and the longer I didn’t deal with it the less I know what to do.” He fumbled out and Ja’far’s face drew into a more and more confused state, and then he fell into chuckles, and Sinbad couldn’t help but derive that that was the single most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

            “You’re an idiot,” he finally says.

            “So I’ve been told.”

            “Why draw me?” He asks, and Sinbad scrunches his face up.

            “Why not you? You’re gorgeous,” Sinbad winces at his word choice. God, that was so cliché of him.

            “I’m a blanket.”

            “That kids an asshole, and you’re not. You remind me of a cat, like a snow leopard or something. You’re graceful and gentle one minute, and fierce and strong the next, your fascinating.”

            “I assure you I’m quite dull.” Sinbad shakes his head, hair tumbling over his shoulder with the movement.

            “You are anything but.”

            “Would you want to draw me again?” He asks, one eyebrow quirked, and a small crooked smile on his face, an expression half interest, half challenge and all endearing.

            “I would,” Sinbad says, mouth suddenly quite dry.

            “I don’t know why the interest, but I’m willing to humor you.” And suddenly, Sinbad is so very thankful he leaped through that door, even though his knee is still throbbing from his less than graceful entry.

It had been about a week since the that day, and things hadn’t changed much all things considered. Students made friends, the teachers mingled, fell into their lesson plans, it was normal. Aladdin and Morgiana drew closer, as did Aladdin and Titus during their shared classes. It was nearing the end of the day, and they were finishing up in their science class with Ms. Yamraiha, her reviewing the breakdown of the way the periodic table was organized before reminding everyone they would have a quiz that Friday. The final bell rang, dismissing everyone for the day. Yamraiha smiled, waving everyone off for the afternoon, her blue hair wrangled in a messy bun and goggles customarily resting atop her head.

            “Hey Yamraiha.”

            “Oh, hi there Sinbad, how are you?” The other teacher breached the doorway, dark wash blue jeans and black button up.

            “Even better if you’d agree to join us for drinks tonight?” He smiled and she frowned, scrunching up her nose adorably.

            “Does everyone include Sharkkhan?” She asked.

            “Of course, he’s one of my best friends. And so are you, and we would all love to have an evening together where the two of you don’t try to kill each other.”

            “Does everyone also include your new friend?” She smiles then, tilting her head to the left, loose strands of hair brushing the lab coat on her shoulder, indicating the direction of both Sinbad, and now Ja’far’s classrooms.

            “I hadn’t thought to invite him, doesn’t really seem like his kind of thing.”

            “Hmph, that’s not something that would usually stop you,” she squares her shoulders and clears her throat, “you’re usually a ‘I’m going to buy you a drink and you’re going to like it,’ kind of man.” Sinbad laughs, Yamraiha’s impersonation humoring him, though even trying her hardest to deepen her voice, she still sounded several octaves higher than he did when he was a pre-pubescent kid.

            “You know I don’t actually do that right?” He says when his laughter ebbs away. She looks at him puzzled, letting her posture return to what it usually is.

            “Sharkkhan says you’re an,” she puts up her fingers, making air quotes as she speaks, “’dog’ and ‘total lady killer.’”

            “I’m quite charming with woman, that is true, and I have bought a lot of drinks for pretty girls, to dissuade some less, savory, parties biding for their attention.”

            “And then they go ‘oh Sinbad, my drunken knight in shining armor, please, ravish me and don’t ever call,’ yeah?” She raises her arm, putting her wrist to her forehead and wraps her other hand around Sinbad’s neck, mocking the dramatic words of her imaginings, before smiling up at Sinbad with her bright blue eyes. Sinbad rolls his eyes, knowing the ideas she has are likely the result of Sharkkhan misinterpreting what goes on at the bars they frequent.

            “Hardly,” he says, disentangling her from him and she giggles.

            “Then what does happen, because that’s what I’ve heard of the great burly Sinbad’s bar-time adventures.”

            “Not to say I haven’t had women throw themselves at me,” she scoffs but he continues, “but most instances I just buy a drink to discourage some shady guy that’s trying the same thing, intimidate him because well, I’m bigger than almost everyone and carry myself like I own the world, and escort her back to her place. Then I leave. Simple as that.”

            “Is that what you did with Kougyoku?” She smiles devilishly and Sinbad winces. Ah, one of his truly less than admirable acts.

            “I didn’t do anything to her,” he defends, hands raised in defiance.

            “Oh?” She queries, hands on her hips she bends forward, looking up at him with a less than believing gaze.

            “I was, aware she had a bit of a crush, and I did buy her dinner, and I may have told her I liked her, but I didn’t touch her.”

            “You just got her swoony with _loove_ and then asked for the nitty gritty about her brother.” Sinbad hangs his head, having nothing to say to her accusation. “Well, you could be a lot worse. And honestly,” she puts a hand on his shoulder, “you should ask him to join us. He’s not very social, and I’d like to see what’s got you so enamored.”

            “I’m not enamored,” he interjects gruffly.

            “Sure you’re not,” she says, patting his shoulder before releasing him, shrugging off her coat and laying it across her desk. “See you tonight,” she says, waving as she walks out the door, leaving a dumbfounded Sinbad in her wake.

            “I’m just… interested.” He mumbles, pulling the door closed behind him as he leaves. He glances to his left, eyes involuntarily gravitating to where he knows Ja’far’s classroom is, and knowing the male, even as little as he does, figures he is still there, working away. A man that wants to be seen as cold, strict and immovable, who actually has spent his whole week analyzing each students strengths and weaknesses in the material so far, and thinking about those predictors to determine what will be the most effective way to convey future lesson plans and develop tutoring strategies. Sinbad shook his head, violet bangs dancing in front of his eyes. The guy was weird, very weird.

            He rapped his knuckles on the door before pulling it open. Dark eyes lock on his, once again from behind glasses, and with papers in his hands. Sinbad wonders how he’s not roasting, with his shirt buttoned up to the last button, and a dark blazer over that, though the tie he had been wearing was now loosened, and Sinbad wondered why he would loosen his tie but not undo any of the buttons on the shirt itself.

            “Hey,” he says, remaining in the doorway.

            “Hi,” Ja’far says suspiciously, “I figured you would be out of here by now.”

            “I’m not in that much of a hurry to leave. I typically stick around a little bit, make sure the kids get out safe, and during the season I coach.”

            “Well aren’t you just a walking stereotype.” Sinbad frowned, the back and forth was starting to get tiring, not knowing what kind of mood Ja’far was going to be in, whether he would be amiable or borderline hostile, and worse, not knowing what could trigger the switch. What made him behave that way. He folded his arms across his chest, cocking his head, as if in invitation for explanation. “Come on, traditionally attractive, laid back, boundless confidence, social butterfly, all the other teachers and children just _adore_ you, I’m sure women just _throw_ themselves at you, all too eager to be in your arms and you wouldn’t dare refuse their propositions for sex back at their place after a couple drinks-“

            “What the hell are you talking about?”

            “Am I wrong? Because that is the picture I’ve been painted.”

            “By _who_?”

            “Is it true or not?”

            “Why does it matter?!” They were practically yelling at each other now, and Sinbad couldn’t figure out how things had spiraled like this. Was he just destined to fight with Ja’far? Was that going to be how their relationship was? “Seriously, what is wrong with you?”

            “With _me?”_ Ja’far gestures to himself, hands on his chest, eyes wide and eyebrows in his hairline, and his face was turning red, which in any other scenario Sinbad would probably find adorable, but right now, he just couldn’t get past how unreasonable this all was. Sure, rumors circulated about him, but nothing bad enough for him to be _this_ upset.

            “You’re the one making a scene right now.”

            “You made a scene in front of your _class_!”

            “What are you _talking_ about?!”

            “You know what, leave me alone, go do whatever it is you do,” he starts stalking off, despite the fact that they were in Ja’far’s classroom. “Fuck, this is my class, _you_ get out!” Sinbad actually laughs at how flustered the other is, which only seems to deepen the scowl and coloration on his face.

            “I’m so confused.” Sinbad admits, and Ja’far doesn’t move from the doorway, where his hand is latched to the handle. “Seriously, what did you hear? Let me at least _try_ and preserve my reputation.”

            “I listen to the conversations people have in the hallways, and Kouen may have had words concerning you.”

            “Kouen. You’re joking. You’re taking his word?”

            “Why shouldn’t I?” Ja’far, Sinbad has noticed, has a habit of pulling on his hair when he’s thinking, or getting emotional, and he’s doing with enough force that Sinbad wants to pry the locks out of his fingers grip, but he makes no move to do so, he’s not about to lose his hand.

            “He’s a snake!”

            “He’s more honest than you’ve been.”

            “Probably because he wants something from you, that man is conniving.”

            “And you don’t?”

            “Don’t what?”

            “Want something?” Ja’far has pushed the door closed at this point, and he’s pulling at his tie, his hair is sticking in a hundred different directions from his distress earlier, and Sinbad swallows hard.

            “You are so hard to keep up with,” Sinbad says, and Ja’far cocks his head at him. “First, I don’t know what you’ve heard, whether it was about Yamraiha, or something Sharr said, or something Kouen said, I’m not a sleazeball.” Ja’far scoffs but leaves no other comment.

            “And Kougyoku?”

            “He would.” Sinbad mutters, “so I made a dick move and took his sister to dinner.”

            “She’s barely eighteen Sinbad.”

            “I didn’t _do_ anything. Kouen and I were schoolmates once, I’d been to his house, Kougyoku had a crush, after everything went the way it did, I called her up awhile later and asked if she wanted to catch up. Kouen practically seethed at the idea I spoke to his sister, but all I did was talk to her, and maybe asked about her family which he didn’t like.”

            “You’re unbelievable.”

            “For _what?_ ”

            “She’s a kid, and you _used_ her.”

            “I didn’t _do_ anything to her.”

            “You played with her, you knew she liked you and you took advantage of that.” Ja’far’s voice was shaking, and he was out the door before Sinbad could say another word.

            “Kouen you are a dead son of a bitch.” He still didn’t get it. What he did to Kougyoku wasn’t right, but he didn’t think it was worth all _that_. Sinbad curses, and then runs out into the hall, deciding he’d had enough. He jogs around the school, looking for Ja’far, for any sign he’d been through. He didn’t know what he was looking for, it’s not like walking through a hallway leaves a distinct mark, and he bolts outside, trying to see if he’s in the parking lot, his breath clouding in front of him, and he’s instantly freezing in his thin, rolled up shirt.

            He’s circling around to the back of the building when he sees him, pressed into the wall, hand clutching his shirt tightly over his chest and he’s full on sprinting now.

            “Ja’far, hey, hey, hey what’s wrong,” there are tears running down his face, and his eyes aren’t focused, like they’re looking through Sinbad instead of at him, and he grabs the thin shoulders of the slender man, rubbing his thumb in circles, hoping it’s a comforting gesture. He’s breathing in quick shallow puffs, and his body’s quaking, and Sinbad puts his hands on the sides of his face, trying to will him to focus. “Ja’far it’s me, what’s wrong?” He brushes the tears off with the back of his hand before grasping Ja’far’s wrist with his right, his left still on his pale face.

            “Sin-“ Ja’far croaks, his voice catching and Sinbad feels a tangible drop in his own anxiety, previously having feared the other was experiencing a heart attack or something.

            “Hey,” Sinbad offers, not sure what else to say. Ja’far looks at Sinbad’s hand on his wrist, and Sinbad awkwardly releases him, stepping out of his space and rubbing the back of his neck.

            “What were you doing?”

            “I was looking for you and found you like-“ Sinbad gestures to Ja’far’s general proximity “that. And didn’t know what to do.”

            “Oh.”

            “Oh? What does that happen often?” Sinbad asks incredulously.

            “Enough.”

            “Do you want to go out for drinks tonight?” Sinbad blurts, having nothing else to say, and having remembered his original purpose for bothering Ja’far in the first place, before all the metaphorical shit hit the fan.

            “What?”

            “Some of my friends are getting drinks tonight, Yam wanted me to invite you.”

            “Yamraiha…?”

            “Yeah, blue hair, super sweet, constant goggles-“

            “I know who she is, we’ve spoken over lunch duty.”

            “Then the question was?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Well, we’ll be at _Zepar’s_ at 8 if you want to come. Should probably get inside, I’m freezing,” Sinbad says. Ja’far shrugs.

            “I don’t mind cold.”

            “Well I don’t want you to get frostbite or something, so come on. Besides, I’m betting you weren’t hanging around for the fun of it, work to do, yeah?” Sinbad asks.

            “Not really. Just delaying going home,” Ja’far mumbles cryptically. Sinbad decides not to comment. Not wanting to get into another argument today, but files it away with the literal hundreds of other things he’s waiting for the right time to ask about.

            He leads Ja’far back into the building, and decides, instead of leaving, to keep the other man company while he fiddles around his classroom with papers and filing, despite his earlier answer that he didn’t really have work to do. He twirls a pencil, trying to draw _anything_ , preferably not Ja’far again, while the other is across the room no less, but he simply can’t get anything else to take form on paper. He groans, and settles for balancing the pencil on his lip, which Ja’far wanders over and knocks off after several minutes with a mischievous smile.

            Pencil in hand once more, Sinbad gives in, and finds himself recreating the image of Ja’far leaning against his desk in the sun earlier that day.

 

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn these chapters keep getting out of control. I always aim for like 2.5k words, and I almost wrote 5k for the one before this, and then I broke it up into a chapter and a half, and now this one is long too and I don’t care. Take it. I’ll try and update better next time. I was hoping to get work done this weekend but I was mostly unconscious on pain meds. So that didn’t happen.   
>  Um yeah. So review if you like. They seriously give me motivation, and remind me I should be writing on days I forget.   
>  Also, if you ever get the urge to write multiple multi-chapter fics at once, don’t do it. It’s terrible.   
>  Until next time  
> Cassie (asthmaticglader formerly lifehousefanatic2011 if anyone is keeping track)  
> Catch me on tumblr at asthmaticglader is you like.


	6. I'm shaking yet Unshakeable

 

They stay in Ja’far’s room for a couple hours, mostly in silence; Ja’far scribbling on papers and Sinbad’s hand passing lightly over his pad.

            He looks up without commenting periodically when Ja’far groans in a distressing manner, pushing his palms aggressively into his eyes and rubbing.

            After the sixth occurrence Ja’far pulls at his tie, yanking it roughly from its prior pristine placing at his neck and unbuttoning the very top button but no farther down, stopping very deliberately.

            “What are you up to over there?” Sinbad quirks, eyebrow raised, pulling attention away from whatever has the other man wound so tightly and clinging so very desperately to his composure despite his obvious discomfort and mild, well, mildly expressed which led Sinbad to think he was quite perturbed, distress.

            Ja’far turns a blank look his way. “What are _you_ doing over there?” He asks in return. Sinbad swallows a little roughly, absently folding the book positioned on his knee closed. Ja’far scoffs at the motion before shaking his head and standing, shedding his blazer and shoving papers gruffly yet delicately somehow, like he was angry but still didn’t want to damage them, and Sinbad was somewhat in awe of the control he showed, being himself a person known for careless seeming actions and rashness.

            He does, however, notice things. Like the way there’s a slight tremor in the others hands as he moves, the darkened area between his shoulders and down his back, his face flushed and Sinbad frowns before standing himself, walking purposefully to stand opposite Ja’far on the other side of the desk, splaying his sketchbook out beneath his palm for Ja’far to see.

            His own gaze is hard on the man in front of him, who says nothing as he stands stock still in front of him, dark eyes trailing from one corner of the page to the other, looking over the graphite lines and shading.

            His forehead creases midway through the page.

            “Why,” he starts, but his voice falters, his gaze not rising from the page, fingers coming up to trail along the edges of the page without actually touching any of the lines Sinbad had drawn, as if he was afraid touching them would make them disappear, or maybe he hoped they would. He wasn’t sure what the man was thinking.

            “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to draw anything for weeks, and all of a sudden there’s you. You’re captivating.”

            “I’m as captivating as a paper bag,” Ja’far mumbles, not raising his eyes, fingers still lingering on the paper.

            “You’ve captivated me. It seems you’ve caught Kouen’s eye as well,” Sin added begrudgingly. Ja’far gives a snort, eyes moving forlornly along the page.

            “He enjoys intellectual interactions. Academic stimulation. Nothing beyond that.”

            “I don’t believe his motives to be near that pure, not from where I was standing.” Ja’far rolls his eyes, finally meeting Sinbad’s golden gaze, melting under his molten stare. Ja’far shakes his head, desperate to escape the attention.

            “What is it with you and Kouen?”

            “We butt heads on fundamental aspects of education.” He replies, almost robotically, the redundancy and the frequency he has to give that “professional response” showing in its deliverance.

            “So I’ve heard, but you are downright barbaric.” Sinbad’s eyes go from soft gold to a burn that could rival suns at Ja’far’s words, and his own come through his teeth with what seemed like great effort to control his temper.

“He’s practically a dictator and borders on brainwashing children he ‘teaches’ and I fail to call that in any form education, and then he has the audacity to publicly criticize me in front of the board and tried to have me removed-”   
            Seeing the rise in aggression straightened his spine and made his hands clammy, fingers twitching. His breath catches but goes unnoticed by his fuming companion. His gaze falls to the door, his mind screaming at him to leave, to run, to get to safety. He tries to force it down, cap the panic.

Sinbad was still talking but he wasn’t listening, he was focusing too hard. His arms came up to fold tightly across his chest, crushing it in a vice beneath the limbs, trying to keep his thrumming heart and panicked lungs contained. His fingers were white knuckling the grip on his own forearms and his legs felt numb as he stood there, fighting all his instincts.

He could feel sweat bearding on his temples, running down his back and further dampening his shirt. He escalated from a vice grip to digging his fingernails into his skin, trying to ground himself in the pain and stamp down the panic he _knew_ was unfounded. He wasn’t in danger here, and he kept repeating that to himself like a mantra, draining out the thudding in his ears and the words Sinbad was still saying that just weren’t reaching him.

He knew Sinbad wasn’t going to hurt him, no one was going to hurt him here, this isn’t there, he was okay, and his mantra shortened to just a rapid repeat of ‘ _I’m okay, I’m safe, this isn’t there. I’m okay, I’m safe, this isn’t there,’_ something Rurumu used to have him say to himself when he first got out and was plagued with panic attacks.

He pulls deep breaths in through his mouth, his throat dry and lips cracking before he remembered he should be breathing through his nose, in through the nose out through the mouth, that’s how it went right?

His heart was still pounding painfully and his head hurt, felt like his skull was shrinking to press his brain into a smaller structure. He couldn’t focus, too much going on with his body to pay attention to his surroundings.

The dampness was seeping into his shirt with fervor now, the clothes shifting along his skin and the weight of his body on his feet was all too much to deal with…

“Excuse me,” he says suddenly, unable to fight it any longer, and he turns sharply, pulling away from his desk and from the room, pulling the door closed with a slam as he left.

He practically ran to the bathroom, tucking himself away in a corner, away from offending mirrors and out of sight of the doorway. _Safe._

He was too hot, his skin aflame beneath the layers. He yanked angrily at his tie, pulling it out from around his neck and reaching shaking hands back up to undo the button on his shirt before letting his hands fall back to his side.

He slumps against the tile wall, reveling in the cool surface against his flushed body. He is still sucking harsh breaths into his lungs, and his chest is constricted, feeling the oxygen fill his lungs while his body still panics that he isn’t getting enough, that he’s suffocating.

He stumbles sideways a bit before finally caving and opening the top buttons of his shirt, wincing at the sound of his gasping breaths echoing off the hollow, empty room.   He starts tugging at his hair, trying to will away the pressure that was trying to flatten him against the floor. He felt himself sink to the floor, his legs no longer able to support his weight. He wanted to scream, break something, anything if it would make this stop. His knees were pressed tight against his chest, legs shaking restlessly and he pulled harder at his hair.

He’d been doing so well recently, the past week was a plateau , not a high but far from a low, it had been even and predictable, had been as normal as his weeks got, and that truth just made his reality that much more painful.

Gods, everything was so simple when Sinbad wasn’t involved. He brought his weakness to the forefront, the things he tried to bury, and the things that deep down he wished he could tell someone, that he could get off his chest. He’d been so strong for so long, wasn’t it his turn to be weak for a minute? To have someone tell him he was alright, that was happened to him was bad but he wasn’t broken, he would be okay one day, wasn’t it his turn to be comforted instead of being stared at like some freak of nature?

No. No he had to get a grip.

Then there’s a feather light touch on his shoulder, and he looks up to meet Sin’s eyes. Somehow, though he was the source of the anxiety, he also quelled it. The warmth of his touch like a balm to an ache deep in his bones, and he didn’t know why.

This man, this enigmatic, frustrating man knew how to calm him, how to reassure him without crushing him. He didn’t pull him into an embrace like so many people think is comforting, but is simply suffocating when you already feel like you’re being pressed into a pinhole, he knew not to do that. He _knew_ , somehow, just how to make things better.

It wasn’t an instant fix, but slowly, his breathing slowed, and his sweat slicked skin was drying, his pulse lowering and he was finally able to hear over the panic. Sinbad squeezed his shoulder gently before stroking his thumb along it and pulling back, a uncharacteristically solemn smile on his usually rather boisterous face.

“Are you alright?” Ja’far nods slowly and Sinbad shakes his head. “Yeah okay, sure.”

“I’m fine, I was caught off guard is all.”

“I think you should go home, get some rest,” Sinbad says, standing and holding a hand out, a hand Ja’far notices was extended slowly, like someone trying to coax a frightened animal out of it’s hiding place.

“I can do my job, thank you,” he snaps, standing abruptly and leaving the room. He wasn’t broken, he wasn’t someone to be coddled or protected, and he didn’t need pity for fuck’s sake.

“Wait up,” Sinbad calls and Ja’far hears his heavy footfalls behind him.

“Leave me alone.” Ja’far bites back without looking, and to his surprise, the footsteps stop.

He continues back to his classroom and back to the papers he can barely read and the work he can’t follow from kids he wants to help but want nothing to do with him because of things they’re parents say. He scrubs a hand across his face and lets out a groan before twisting the handle and letting himself inside, then resolutely clicking the lock.

 

* * *

 

Sinbad stood in the hallway, his feet stuck to the ground though he wanted to follow the white haired man. Despite his insistence, Sinbad knew he wasn’t alright, hell a blind person could see that, but he didn’t want to push him away either, so he stayed back like he was asked, despite his desires to do otherwise.

            Instead he made his way down to Yamraiha’s room, where he figured she would be finishing up her after school lab and getting ready to head over for drinks like they had all planned. His steps feel heavy with a weight he can’t quite name, or maybe that he just can’t bring himself to name, he isn’t sure which it is and his heart is heavy for the man, wondering what could have happened in his past to have him respond with such a visceral reaction to someone raising their voice around him.

            Which led him to realize where he had screwed up, in treating Ja’far like he was weak or fragile, like he was fractured, he had looked at him like he was damaged, and that probably felt like a slap in the face to someone like Ja’far, someone who was obviously so self-motivated and hard working and had probably spent hours, weeks or years recovering from whatever had hurt him to be looked at like he was still this damaged thing that needed help.

            Well shit.

            He was already at Yamraiha’s door or he would have been seriously tempted to turn around and right his wrong.

            “Sin!” She called, her large goggles over her face even as she performed a seemingly hazardless task of cleaning beakers and cylinders.

            “Hey Yam,” he says, walking in a surrendering himself to leaving things as they are with Ja’far for the moment.

            “What’s the matter?” She asked, untangling her hair from the goggle straps and looking at him with that sideways head tilt because of course she could tell something was off, she was just keen with her intuition that way.

            “Continuing to go one step forward, push my foot in my mouth and fall two steps back again.” He grumbles, picking up and fiddling with one of her freshly cleaned beakers. She takes the item from him in her slender fingers and he looks up at her.

            “What did you do?” She asks with a coy smile. He stares at her for a moment. “This is about Ja’far right? Did you make an ill received move? Where you a jerk like Sharr can be?”

            “I’ll answer when you stop asking new questions,” he says, and pauses for a moment to see if she’ll stay quiet. “I just offended him is all, it’s complicated.”

            “What about him isn’t complicated, poor thing seems to have a lot going on,” she says, discarding her lab coat.

            “I didn’t know you really knew him,” Sinbad says, a small pang of unwarranted jealousy passing through him at the idea Yamraiha might know something that he didn’t.

            “I don’t really,” she says, a somewhat wistful sound coloring her tone as she racked the coat, dragging her fingers down it longer than was necessary as she thought. “We shared lunch duty a couple days ago and had small talk, but it’s something about him just seems like….”

            “He’s got the world on his shoulders and won’t ask for help?” Sinbad offered and Yamraiha gave a solemn nod.

            “He doesn’t seem particularly close to anyone, except you, and from what you’ve told me you haven’t gotten very much from him either. He just seems too kind to look so lonely all the time.” Sinbad wasn’t able to respond to her words before more of their party arrived in the room, Drakon and Sharrkan arriving at the same time, shortly followed by Hinahoho and Rurumu.

            Yamraiha was a very perceptive person, and that was something he loved and hated about her, couple that with the accepting and gentle personality that she has and you just wanted to spill your guts to her, and she would understand. Except with Sharrkan, there seemed to be some kind of barrier there that left those two in a constant state of misunderstanding.

            Tonight though, was a little different. They had all squished into Hina’s SUV, him and Rurumu in the front, Drakon and Sin in the rear seats, and Yamraiha was between Sin and Sharrkan and more or less in both of their laps, and the two were having a civil conversation, a conversation that continued on into the bar, and had the two of them dancing to the thrumming music, drinks in hand and smiles on their faces.

It had Sinbad heavy with an uncharacteristic longing, but he wasn’t sure for what. For a partner? A friend? That kind of intimacy? All of the above? Or maybe just anything, as long as it was the right person. And why when he thought of the “right person” did dark, sleep deprived eyes and tired shoulders come to mind.

“How are you Sinbad,” Hinahoho rumbles from beside him.

“I’m good,” he says, the answer somewhat automatic, but not completely untrue.

“You seem better than you were at the meeting, has Kouen been giving you trouble?” Sinbad huffs before taking a drag of his drink.

“He decided it was within his right to tell Ja’far about Kougyouku, which made him irrationally angry with me.”

“I can see why that might upset him.”

“Why? Cause honestly I still don’t get it unless he warped the story more than he usually does.”

“Ja’far is just… sensitive around certain topics. He’s been through a lot and some things just don’t sit well with him, and sometimes it is kind of random. Don’t worry about it too much, he’s probably just under a lot of stress. I’m glad Kouen isn’t causing you undue troubles.”

“Besides existing,” Sinbad mumbles against the lip of his beer. “Geeze, they’re getting out of hand fast,” he says, eyeing the quickly deteriorating sobriety of Sharrkan and Yamraiha. Drakon had volunteered to be their designated driver, and was currently chatting with the bartender, a lovely girl by the name of…. He couldn’t quite remember. Sarah maybe?

Sinbad held his drink up, asking for another. He hadn’t planned on getting carried away here, not like he sometimes does, he just wanted to enjoy the company of his friends, though that was turning out to be more Hinahoho than anyone, as the other three seemed to be on their way to worming their way into something a little bit more than friendship. Sinbad chuckled, wondering what flip had switched to make Sharkkan suddenly tolerable.

He gazed down the bar, taking in the crowd and noting the familiar faces, giving a small wave to those he was more familiar with. This was nice, but why did it feel like there was something missing?

* * *

 

Yamraiha was slumped against his side, mumbling incoherently into his shoulder and Sharkkan was stumbling sideways next to Hinahoho.

“Y’know, he might not actually be so bad,” Yamraiha slurred and Sinbad chuckled, knowing exactly who she was talking about. “And you, you should talk to, hicc, Ja’far, I’m sure he’ll forgive you if you, hicc, talk to him, he seems nice even if he looks really mean.” She says with a small pout before going quiet again and Sinbad just smiles down at her.

They pile back into the car, and Yamraiha is curled comfortably in a surprisingly cuddly Sharkkan’s lap as the begin the rounds of dropping people off, starting with Drakon, who lives nearest to the bar and farthest from Hinahoho.

Yamraiha is next, and Sinbad takes it upon himself to guide her into her apartment and set out some water for her when she wakes up, and wonders if he won’t get called to watch her science class the next day. Why they insist on going out on Wednesday is beyond him, though it is typically more social than it is a ‘let’s go get wasted’ kind of thing. Sinbad saves that for his lonely Saturday nights.

Her blue hair is splayed across her pillow, and she’s tucked in fully dressed when he places a kiss to her forehead and heads back to the car to drop of Sharrkan. Sinbad is always the last to go, and they drive the rest of the way in companionable silence, Sharkkan dozing against the window.

Sharrkan’s still coherent enough to get himself inside his apartment, though he does struggle longer than needed getting the key into the lock, but they’re able to pull away without incident.

Sinbad bids them goodnight when they arrive at his place, and he lets himself in and gets ready for bed, thoughts of what he’ll say to Ja’far in the morning swirling around his head. How does one apologize for putting their foot so profoundly in their mouth? Or begin to approach things that Hinahoho had alluded to in their brief talk?

The thoughts keep him up, and he tries to draw, or paint, or _anything_ but he just finds himself staring blankly at the canvases before, no matter what form they take and he groans in frustration, not wanting to succumb to artists’ block again so soon.

Realizing he has no hope in finding solace in a creative outlet he flips on the tv and curls up on his couch and watches re-runs of this show about two brothers and what appears to be a socially inept inhuman ally.

Without realizing it he falls asleep, and wakes with a start when his phone blares his alarm from the confines of his pocket, still wearing the jeans he had worn to the bar. He strips down, an ache to his back and a small headache, though he imagined it was nothing close to what Yamraiha and Sharrkan were probably feeling right now.

He showered quickly and put on fresh jeans, well, fresher. He really needed to do laundry, and then threw on a white button he didn’t button up all the way with a purple undershirt and towel dried his hair before tying it back. He brewed a quick cup of coffee, slung it into a thermos and hopped in his car.

Somehow, though he had woken at his normal time, he was leaving considerably early, and he chose not to think that was his body subconsciously trying to get him to the school to talk to Ja’far sooner, definitely not, happy coincidence. He couldn’t even convince himself of that in his head.

He was pulling into the school over an hour before classes started, his beat up jeep coming to a stop beside the eco-friendlier car he knew belonged to Ja’far, and he didn’t put thought into that decision either.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and got halfway to the doors before he realized he left his coffee in his cupholder and had to turn back in the bitter chill to grab it, letting the thermos warm his hands as he tried the small trek again, wondering how it had already gotten to be midterm season.

His breath was swirling through the air, and his fingers were tingling when another car pulled up, and he looked back and scowled at it, realizing it was Kouen arriving, and quickened his pace so he would be well inside the doors before the offending man was able to get out of his car.

He went to his own classroom, fitting the key easily into the lock and stomaching the small well of anxiety he felt about talking to Ja’far, hoping the other man had simmered down some. His temper, though he had limited experience with it, was obviously a force to be reckoned with.

A timid knock sounded at his door as he was rearranging the paints that had been haphazardly put away at the end of the previous day and looked up to meet dark eyes and pale skin, and he felt his lips curling into a smile as he said ‘come in.’

“Hi Sin,” Ja’far said as he approached, glancing around the room with an unease that would have probably been imperceptible to anyone else, but Sinbad was getting used to the nuances of the others behavior, and the way he seemed to mark exits when he walked into a room, or the small twitch his fingers did like they were itching to do something but didn’t know what when he was nervous, like they were doing now.

“How are you this morning?” Sinbad asks, an easy smile on his face and Ja’far’s shoulders droop a little as he lets out tension, and the twitch in his fingers stills.

“Well. I’m well. Sorry I didn’t join you yesterday, I don’t really frequent bars.” Ja’far seemed willing to move past their little interaction at the end of the previous day, and Sinbad was internally debating the pros and cons to bringing it up or ignoring it the way Ja’far seemed to be. Perhaps the younger man was embarrassed by his reaction?

“Don’t worry about it, we go often, you can join us another time,” Sinbad says and Ja’far sits down at one of the tables near the front.

“It’s comforting in here,” Ja’far says quietly, his eyes still roaming about the room, pausing on the different student artworks hung about along with the famous ones, eyeing the marks of paint on the floor and the stains in the table surface, as if he were memorizing it to be able to recall later, or maybe he just found it all fascinating for some reason.

“A bit more comfortable than squeezing into the desks you have in your classroom,” Sinbad jokes and Ja’far nods.

“Perhaps we should spend mornings in here.” He said absently and Sinbad leaves his desk to sit across from Ja’far, his sketchbook settled beside his right arm.

“Perhaps,” he agrees and Ja’far finally meets his eyes then, and Sinbad is relieved to see the circles were lighter today, and the weight of exhaustion seemed lesser. “Though I warn you, I get visitors often.”

“That’s alright.” They lapse into a comfortable silence then, with Sinbad pulling open his sketchbook and propping his feet on the table to their left. Ja’far lays his elbows on the surface, and allows his head to pillow on top of them.

Apparently, even though Ja’far looked less tired, he was still exhausted, and he was giving breathy exhales and seemed to have nodded off after just a couple minutes, and his glasses were pushed askew at an odd angle.

Sinbad’s hand is moving across the pad before he registers it, and he’s got a light outline in mere moments. He then takes mercy on the glasses and gently pulls them off a freckled nose and lays them down beside their owner, returning his pencil to his hand and letting it work freely. Whatever was blocking him last night seemed to have moved on, and he had a lovely sketch of a snoozing Ja’far in half an hour.

Ja’far is still sleeping when Aladdin comes in the room with his own sketchbook, a wide smile on his face as he all but skips into the room. Before he can even say hello Ja’far shoots awake, alarm etched into his features and his back painfully straight, eyes flitting about until they land on Sinbad, and his pale cheeks color slightly.

“Hi Mr. Sinbad!” Aladdin calls, “Hi Mr. Ja’far.”

“Hello Aladdin,” Ja’far greets softly.

“Hi Aladdin. Did you come to work on your project?”

“Yeah I did, I hope that’s alright,” the boy says, a not unnoticed glance in Ja’far’s direction.

“Of course,” Sinbad says and the blue haired boy beams before setting his book on the table behind the one Ja’far and Sinbad were currently sitting at.

“What are you drawing Mr. Sinbad?” Aladdin asks as he flips to the page of his own book and patters about the room gathering supplies.

Sinbad chuckles awkwardly before answering, “I was drawing Ja’far.” He says, sending a nervous glance across from him, but Ja’far looks unsurprised when he says this, only raising an eyebrow and a side of his mouth curling. Sinbad nods down at the page of the battered sketchbook and Ja’far scoots it to his side.

“Can I draw you too Mr. Ja’far?” Aladdin asks unabashedly, and Ja’far looks up from the sketch with surprise.

“Um, sure,” he says hesitantly, before glancing back at the paper in his hands. “This is… lovely Sin,” he mutters before passing the book back and looking at Aladdin. “Did you want me to just sit here?” Aladdin puffs out his cheeks as he thinks, and Ja’far can’t help but think the kid is adorable like that.

“Mr. Sinbad, will you pose him?” Aladdin asks, and Sinbad swallows.

“Is that alright?” Sinbad asks Ja’far, who simply nods in response. Sinbad stands, pulling a chair out of the corner and placing it at the center of the tables. “You have English first right Aladdin?”

“Yeah, but I already finished my assignment so Mr. Spartos said I could stay in here if that’s okay with you,” he says, flipping to a new page without looking up, blue eyes roving over the blank space. Sinbad looks at Ja’far who already stood and walked over to the chair.

“Ok, I’ll just call down to him to make sure here in a minute. Sinbad looks to Ja’far before stepping back and looking at him and humming. “Just sit there. Okay, now cross your ankle over your knee, and um, hmm,” he takes Ja’far’s arm and puts his hand behind his head, and orients the other to hang beside him. He puts his hand on the side of Ja’far’s neck and turns his head towards a corner of the room so that he’s looking up and away.

“This is kind of awkward,” Ja’far says as he holds the position and Sinbad gives a soft laugh.

“It can be the first time,” Sinbad says, looking around the room for another thing he wanted. He pulls a flower from a shelf and slides it between the free hanging hands fingers, and then he adjust the angle of Ja’far’s head again, and he tells himself it’s not just as an excuse to touch him, and resists the urge to sweep his thumb over the freckles on his cheekbones. He steps back and the light sweeping in from the early morning behind Ja’far makes him look damn near ethereal. “Alright, you remember my tips for drawing life models?”

“Yeah I remember,” Aladdin says noncommittally, his hand already dancing across the page. He lets out a long sigh then. “Dad got pulled for the war,” he says quietly and Sinbad’s heart sinks. Solomon had served previously, had been a great leader even and gotten medals for his combat, it made sense they’d pull him back. Sinbad just didn’t know it had gotten that far yet. Before they knew it, if they didn’t pull out of this crap soon, there would be a draft.

“When does he leave?” Sinbad asks.

“Two weeks. Mom cried. He got called yesterday.” The room was silent except for the scratching of his pencil on the paper and Sinbad took a seat next to him and started sketching with him.

“It’ll be alright kiddo,” he says, and he hates how weak it sounds. It had been a rough couple of years, a lot of kids were losing family to the war, and all Sinbad could ever think was how stupid it all was. You can’t just invade a country looking for a terrorist group, dismantle their government, and assume it will all be ok. They’d already been in this mess for three years, and the death tolls on both sides were astronomical.

He couldn’t say that to a kid though, what could he say besides that it would be ok. What could he say that would comfort a kid who’s old enough to understand his dad might not come home, that this, their countries actions were unjust, that his father was going to have to do things that were abhorrent. That their own country was in the wrong here, and his father might die for that. For a lost cause at finding and destroying al-tharmen.

Sinbad hated it. He hated war, and right now he was quite against their government for not protecting their people. They _had_ to know this war was pointless, and they were just sacrificing lives at this point, but they were trying to uphold face, trying to push through until they got something they could mark as a victory no matter how many lives it took and he couldn’t stand it. That wasn’t protecting their people, that was protecting themselves.

He made it a point to ignore the war, and what people said about, the paper thin reasons they always gave for their continued efforts and attempts to recruit new men and women to their forces.

This was so stupid.

They kept drawing in silence until ten minutes before the bell, when Sinbad called for a break and let Ja’far rest.

“First period is planning for me if you want to keep working,” Ja’far says to Sinbad, who smiles.

“Yeah I’d like that,” he says, and a small smile is returned from Ja’far at his words. They stare at each other a moment longer than is acceptable before looking away, and Sinbad meets sparkling blue eyes and a knowing smile from Aladdin, and he’s glad some of the melancholy from earlier seems to have worn away from the boy.

“I’m going to put a note on my door, I’ll be right back,” Ja’far says before leaving.

“You like him,” Aladdin says as soon as Ja’far’s faint footsteps fade away. Sinbad just smiles and shakes his head abashedly but doesn’t actually answer. “He’s nice. You better not hurt him.”

“I’m not going to do anything to him. He’s a good friend,” Sinbad says, though the word leaves a somewhat sour taste on his tongue, not feeling adequate enough to describe Ja’far, but also not knowing what a better word might be, he’s not sure there’s a word in the English language that could encompass what Ja’far meant to him alone, though perhaps Spartos would be better able to supply one. Sinbad was good with his hands, not so much his words.

“Sure,” Aladdin says, looking back down at his sketch and hardening some of his fainter lines as he waits for Ja’far to come back.

It’s barely over a minute when Ja’far comes back, and he takes a seat in the chair.

“How much do you have left Aladdin?” Sinbad asks as he walks over to help adjust Ja’far back into his position.

“Not much. I think I wanna paint it though,” he says, his eyes narrowing as he studies the drawing in front of him.

“That’s fine, just finish up your details and then,” he looks to Ja’far, “we’ll let you relax and he can paint the colors while you’re sitting in a normal position.” Ja’far nods, crossing his leg over his knee as it had been before, and letting Sinbad angle his face again, which placed them in very, very close proximity, something Sinbad tried not to think about as he struggled not to look at the lips just a few inches from his as his fingers graced soft skin, lingering half a second longer than necessary.

He reluctantly lets go and takes his place beside Aladdin, hardening a couple of his lines before cracking open the watercolors he had gathered. He wanted the color to flow, to have the kind of grace that Ja’far did, and he wanted to extrapolate on the already ethereal environment of his person.

“What kind of paint are you going to use?” Sinbad asks, noticing the way Aladdin’s tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t know yet, I think acrylics will be too harsh. I want it to be delicate,” Aladdin reasons, but before Sinbad can respond Marga’s friend comes into the room.

“Why hello Aladdin, how are you?” He asks and Aladdin looks up excitedly.

“Titus!” He says, springing up from his seat and bounding over to hug the boy, but then his excitement melts. “Dad got called to the army last night.”

“I’m sorry Aladdin,” he says. “Oh my, didn’t mean to interrupt, do show me your drawing though.” Aladdin perks back up then as he drags Titus over to his table, talking animatedly about how he wanted to paint it but he didn’t know with what yet.

“I may use watercolors like Mr. Sinbad.” Titus looks up at Sinbad then, who is adding faint colors to the slacks in his painting.

“You are very talented there Mr. Sinbad, I’m afraid I just don’t have artistic skills. Sphintus though, he’s a talent. Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, pulling a book out of his bag. “Marga was ill today, she wanted me to turn in her sketch for her though.” He says, handing over the book to Sinbad who placed his paintbrush in his mouth to take the offered item.

“Thank you Titus that’s very nice of you to do for her, tell her I hope she feels better. How is Scheherezade?”

“She’s doing better. They let her come home from the hospital last week.”

“That’s very good to hear,” Sinbad says.

“Well I’d better get back to study hall. Call me if you need anything Aladdin,” he says before giving the boy a parting hug.

“Thanks Titus.” Aladdin says, then he sits back down. “I’m finished if you want to relax Mr. Ja’far.”

“Thank you Aladdin,” Ja’far says, releasing the position and standing, arching his back and stretching his arms above his head. It pulls at the cuffs of his sleeves and Sinbad catches another glimpse of those elusive scars before they’re hidden away again.

Ja’far sits back down and folds himself on the table again, head atop his arms. The three of them sit in silence for about twenty minutes before another small knock echoes through the room.

“Is Mr. Ja’far in here?” Ja’far sits up and returns his glasses to their position atop his nose before responding.

“Yes.” The boy walks in, midnight blue hair falling precisely and mismatched blue eyes searching the room until they land on Ja’far.

“Ah, I was wondering if you could help me with the homework you assigned, if you’re not too busy that is.”

“Of course Hakuryuu, come over here and let me see where you’re having problems,” Ja’far says, gesturing to the seat next to him.

The four of them stay like that until the next bell rings, and they part, both Harkuryuu and Aladdin thanking Ja’far for his help, to which Ja’far replies with a shy ‘you’re welcome.’

“I’ll see you later Ja’far,” Sinbad says as Ja’far leaves, and Ja’far gives him a smile and a small wave before heading off to his own classroom, leaving a dopey grin on Sinbad’s face for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote down my ideas for this fic, so now I know where it’s headed yay! As always, I love reviews/comments (can you tell I used to be on fanfic.net) and if you have any questions or comments feel free to drop them there and I’ll try and address them.   
> (Also, I started a new writing blog, cassiel-of-Thursday.tumblr.com if anyone is interested I’ll be posting updates and chapter snippets there, and maybe posting small ficlets for various fandoms.)
> 
> Also I'm probably renaming this fic soon, I can't stand the name -_-
> 
> I'll be alternating updates between this and I'm nothing but a dried up life, and I'm almost finished moving (again) so I SHOULD have more time to write. (key word: should)  
> As always, thanks for reading!
> 
> Cassiel


	7. Until the day that I found you

That afternoon he doesn’t see Ja’far. Well, not really. He sees a flurry of dark slacks and glasses leaving his classroom in a hurry, and not with a happy expression on his face. His brows are pinched and he looks about like he is rushing off to be sick, and Sinbad doesn’t even have the chance to call out to the man before he’s already gone and out the doors.

“Shit,” Sinbad says, jumping up from his seat and making his way outside himself, remembering he’s supposed to be on traffic duty today. Though they are closing in on midterms and “winter break” it’s still absurdly hot outside, one of the downfalls of being on the west coast he supposes, and he unbuttons another button from his shirt to keep him from feeling like he’s suffocating.

The sun was bright overhead and it beat down on the asphalt below. The warmth swelled around him, and he thanked the gods it was a dry heat. He was good with heat, he was not good with humidity, it made his hair funny and it felt like you were wading through water rather than walking on land. He was a person not a fish, he didn’t want to feel like one.

He took up his place in the parking lot and watched as the kids filed out. He waved at some of them as the passed him, and endured the mildly heated glares of some of the parents who only ever stepped onto school grounds to drop off and pick up their children, and then had the audacity to preach that they knew better than he did. He shook his head at the thought. Maybe he was still rather perturbed about everything that had gone down in the past, even if he did still have a job and a boss that would defend him to the ends of the world.

Even if Ja’far seemed content to entertain the company of the one that had almost had a substantial hand in ruining his career. He tried not to dwell on that; he wasn’t in a position to dictate who Ja’far was allowed to hang out with, or who any of his friends were allowed to hang out with. To be fair, that wasn’t really anyone’s right. That didn’t mean he would hold his tongue in regard to what he thought of the man, but that was a different point entirely, but one he felt rather secure in thinking.

As he waved cars through his mind wandered back to the expression Ja’far had had on his face as he was leaving, and the hold of his body as he had fled, and he wondered what could have changed his disposition so much from the smiley, indulgent man he’d seen that morning with Aladdin and Hakuryuu to the one who looked like he was being wrung out from the inside. Whatever had caused it Sinbad already decided he didn’t like it and would do anything to make sure the other man had a better day the next day.

He was tired and sweaty by the time the parking lot had emptied out and he was able to go back into the school and make his way to his classroom, pulling off the note saying he was on traffic duty and would return soon as he pushed his way inside.

He flipped open his sketchbook, to the page he had been working on that morning, looking at the relaxed aura Ja’far had held despite being obviously nervous about being a model for the two of them, the way his eyes had stayed tracked to Sinbad for most of the time, looking away only when Sinbad looked back at him, as if he didn’t realize Sinbad had already noticed him watching.

He wished he could flip back the hours, go back to the then, to the Ja’far that was light and happy, or maybe go back to the “then” that periodically caused the man to break down in hysterics, that had left both physical and mental scars on someone that seemed so gentle and kind at heart, go back to the “then” that had hurt him and protect him from it.

He sighed. He was really lost on the guy.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning Sinbad went running before work. He hadn’t been able to get Ja’far out of his head all afternoon, and when he woke, the man was still somehow on his mind, so he went running.

It was nothing extravagant, just a couple miles down the street from his complex, headphones in, feet pounding on the pavement and the heat already pressing him down into the ground with the weight of the humidity. He hated humidity.

He pulled into school at the same time he usually did, gathering his things into his arms haphazardly, as he had quite literally swiped them off the table and ran out the door when he realized how long his shower and subsequent hair styling had taken. The wind blew a couple from the top of the stack away from him and he was mid-explicative, turning around to try and snatch them from the air when a pale hand laid them back on top of his stack with a gentle smile.

“Ja’far,” he says, stunned a little bit into stupidity.

“Yes, hello Sinbad,” he says and its not lost on Sin how sleep deprived he looks, from the exhaustion in his eyes to the slump of his shoulders and drag of his steps to the front door. Ja’far pulls the door open for him, and they walk together to Sinbad’s room, where Ja’far follows him in and seats himself at his table, throwing his bag atop it and rubbing his fingers up under his glasses and into his eyes.

“Rough night?” Sinbad asks, part concern and part genuine curiosity at what seems to have the light haired man so obviously strung out.

“You could say that,” he says, letting his hands drop to the table and gazing forlornly at the offending limbs, carefully pulling his sleeves down over the palms of his hands, seemingly very conscious of the scars beneath the fabric.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He prods gently, abandoning the papers Ja’far had saved for him and seating himself across from Ja’far at the table.

“Shit,” he curses before standing. “Do you have a piece of paper?” Sinbad nods, his expression obviously betraying his confusion since Ja’far shakes his head and explains. “If I’m going to be over here I need to put a note on my door.” He retreats then, slinking out the door with the grace of something feline, or perhaps serpentine, and Sinbad finds himself staring out the door long after Ja’far’s back disappears through the frame.

In the moments that he’s gone, Sinbad pulls out the battered sketchbook and opens it back up to the page of Ja’far, and draws a blank.

“Fuck,” he mutters just as Ja’far is re-entering the room.

“Good to see you too,” he says, a sarcastic smile on his face, and Sinbad decides it’s a look he enjoys very much. When Sinbad continues to look at his sketchpad like it’s a rubik’s cube with eight sides rather than a piece of paper with work he’d already started Ja’far follows up his comment. “What’s wrong?”

            “Art block, again.” He tosses the sketchbook to the middle of the table and leans back, propping his booted feet up on the table and tilting his chair back, the legs making a screeching sound on the tile and the body of the furniture creaking with the strain of the years.

            “What does that mean?” Ja’far asks, mimicking Sinbad’s posture with his own dress shoe clad feet, his chair making considerably less noise, whether because it was in better shape or because Ja’far took more care in adjusting his position no one could know.

“It’s,” he sighs, loudly, and crosses his arms behind his head, “like getting stuck. It’s weird, it’s kind of like wanting to do something but not knowing how, or losing motivation.”

“Does this happen often?”

“I’d been on art block all Summer. Until I met you I couldn’t seem to find a way to do anything with my work. Couldn’t paint, couldn’t draw, nothing. Then I saw you that morning, and something clicked and I didn’t even realize it. Now, I don’t know what’s happened.” Sinbad sits back up, the front legs of his chair hitting the tile with a resounding clatter and he hunches over the table, one hand propping up his chin, finger between his teeth as he worries it.

“Did something happen last year? Or does it just come and go?” Ja’far asks, once again mirroring Sinbad’s position, but in a more graceful motion, and with the way they’re both leaned forward, they’re so close he can see each freckle adorning Ja’far’s nose, can see the flecks of green in his dark eyes, the small line of worry creasing his brow, and the contained tension held in his body, like he’s trying to be relaxed but at the same time ready to bolt from the room at a moment’s notice, and Sinbad can’t help but wonder _why_. People aren’t inherently that way, you can throw a ball at someone and hit them straight in the face if you don’t warn them first, but something told him if you did that to Ja’far you’d find the ball back in your own face before your eyes registered the man had moved.

It was unnerving, and captivating somehow.

“Depends. Sometimes it fluctuates with my mood, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes something happens, sometimes it doesn’t, or it’s not significant enough for me to notice anyway. Though last year I suppose…” he trails off then, eyes traveling to the corner of the room, unfocused, his mind busy with what had transpired at the end of the year last term.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ja’far asks, pulling off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. “I meant to ask earlier actually, did you need to do something with those papers you were carrying in?” Sinbad looked back to the desk, to the stack that had so eagerly tried to escape his grasp that morning in the cooler dawn air.

“It can wait,” he says simply, and Ja’far isn’t sure if he’s talking about the papers or the story he alluded to, because they are interrupted by a knock on the door, and a small girl coming in before either of them has a chance to lean back out of the others personal space. “Marga!” Sinbad says excitedly, almost unaware of the scene she had walked in on.

“Hi Mr. Sinbad,” she says, and her voice is soft and breathy, and she rasps out a couple of coughs before sitting down at a table towards the entrance and pulling supplies from her bag. Ja’far realizes he’s smiling and is taken slightly aback by the unwarranted expression.

“I guess now is a good time for those papers,” he says, glaring weakly at the discarded notebook and Ja’far feels something stir in him, pity? No. Not that. Sympathy? Not quite, but closer. Empathy?

“Mr. Sinbad?” a voice says, echoing slightly as its owner walks into the room.

“Yes?” Sinbad calls from behind his desk, righting the orientation of the papers that had been mishandled less than an hour ago. “Oh, hello there Alibaba.”

“Oh, Mr. Ja’far, I didn’t know you were in here,” the blonde boy says and Ja’far nods to him from where he’s seated. “That’s good actually, I need your help. Well, one of you, or both of you.”

“What do you need Alibaba?” Sinbad says, his head now below the desk as he rifles through the drawers for something.

“It’s Kassim.” Sinbad stands up then, closing the drawer and abandoning his prior search with a seriousness on his face Ja’far had only seen when the man had spoken of Ren Kouen.

“What about him?” Ja’far asks, hoping to keep this conversation from going the same way the one about Kouen had. Alibaba sits down at the table, across from Ja’far and Sinbad crosses the room, pulling a chair to head the table so he could see both his companions, rather than face one and sit beside the other.

“I think he’s into something bad,” Alibaba says, looking down at his hands. “Bad, bad.” Sinbad runs a hand over his face then.

“I was worried about that when I saw him hanging with those two at the start of the year.”

“What two?” Ja’far asks.

“Zaynab and Hassan. Hassan has an older brother in prison for violent gang activities, and I don’t think Zaynab and Hassan fall too far behind that label.”

“He’s not in prison anymore, he got out a month ago,” Alibaba says meekly.

“Good for him,” Sinbad mutters. “So what particularly has you concerned?”

“He just is hanging around them a lot, and he’s saying all this stuff that just doesn’t sound like him anymore. I think he’s going to hurt someone,” Alibaba says and Sinbad feels bad. Everyone in this school has put their hand out to Kassim, trying to get him to respond to something, some method, but he just never did. There Alibaba was though, by his side the whole time, through bad grades and bad report cards, pushing him to try and give someone a chance.

“If you really think he’s going to hurt someone, we can notify the authorities and have them place him under a watch.”

“No, I can’t do that to him. I’ll – I’ll try and talk to him, maybe I can talk him down,” Alibaba stands to leave but Ja’far speaks up before he can get far.

“Be careful, Alibaba. Don’t do anything that would put yourself in danger, do you understand me?” He says, and though his voice is firm, it was a firmness that was laced by concern, and fueled by care. By him wanting his kids to be safe, and Sinbad couldn’t help but smiling at it. The guy was such a contradiction, he acted hard and tough, but he was so warm and compassionate inside, and he wondered what might have happened for him to have shoved that side of him away from the surface.

“I will, thank you Ja’far.” He says, his strange hair cut bobbing as he nods down at his teacher.

“Come to us, if you need help,” Sinbad adds, and Alibaba gives a wave as he leaves. Sinbad groans, stretching out over his chair. “He is such a good kid, but he’s going to get himself in trouble with that crowd.”

“It happens,” Ja’far says, and there’s a sharpness to his tone that wasn’t there moments ago, and he wonders what it was in that sentence that had gotten him riled up.

“Ja’far, are you alright?” Sinbad says, and the volume in the hallways was starting to increase as more students arrived, the dull roar starting to push its way into the room, breaking the illusion of privacy they’d had before Marga and Alibaba and the world invaded.

“Yes Sin, I’m fine.” He says, pulling open his bag and going through his papers before pulling out a small stack. “I gave another pop quiz, and the same kids are having troubles with the same things.”

“Have you tried approaching it a different way?”

“Like what?” Sinbad stands up, gesturing for Ja’far to stand too. He meanders back behind his desk, where he’s stashed his whiteboard, and gestures to it with a hand as he speaks.

“Show me how you usually teach it,” he says, handing Ja’far a marker, and Ja’far steps closer, squeezing into the typically unused space between the desk and the whiteboard. Sinbad didn’t usually use the whiteboard, so he’d crammed it into that space, opening up more space in the room, which left very little room for the two of them, and Sinbad could practically feel the subtle heat coming off of him, and his elbow brushed Sin’s arm as he wrote, his voice gently carrying across the room.

“And that’s how I do it,” he says, turning around and pulling the hand holding the marker delicately between his fingers when he realizes how close they are, his chest practically pressed against Sin’s. “Um, how-how do you do it?” He says, looking up at Sinbad through his lashes and glasses, a faint tremor to his hand as he hands over the marker.

The two of them don’t notice Aladdin in the doorway pointing at them and whispering to Aladdin and Morgiana. They don’t notice Yamraiha come by and pull the kids away. They don’t notice the people that stall in front of their door to spy on the interaction, or the quiet gossip between them, and they don’t notice the dark look that crosses Kassim’s eye as he sees the fond look on Sinbad’s face as he leans in to show Ja’far his own diagrams on the board.

“Maybe try and show it to them that way this time,” he says, one hand on top of the board, the other outstretched towards Ja’far, inches away, and the other’s body like a magnet for his touch, desperately pulling him to feel, to caress the other’s cheek, to lean in a press his lips to his freckles, then maybe, finally, to the other’s lips. Pull him close and shield him from all the dark things that obviously color his past.

He clears his throat, before stepping back and around the desk, trying to prevent himself from doing something stupid. Though, if possible, Ja’far looks as flustered as Sinbad feels, and he’s incredible relieved to have that distance between them, to ease that tension, since if he spends any more time next to Ja’far he’s going to end up with a tent in his pants and Gods he can’t do that, he can’t keep thinking about Ja’far that way, he’s a friend, and one that’s been hurt, and he can’t move on someone vulnerable like that.

“Thank you,” Ja’far says quietly, his face pink and Sinbad tries not to dwell on that fact. Tries not to dwell on how he might look on his sheets, how he might respond to being touched with tenderness and love instead of the roughness that coats his skin, how it might look to have his scars, his imperfections laid out bare before him and oh gods that thought has to stop there. Immediately. Thankfully, the bell chooses that moment to ring, unthankfully, he and Ja’far both have free periods and the other makes no move to leave.

He actually makes no move to relocate from where he is in front of the whiteboard, almost like he’s transfixed to that position. The moment is broken when the door closes, signally Marga leaving and going to her class, and Sinbad feels slightly ashamed at the display they had put on, though he assumed his mind was probably blowing the interaction out of proportion and it looked far more innocent to anyone that didn’t have the perverted mind that he had.

Ja’far sinks back into his chair, flipping through his pages and slipping a pen cap between his lips.

“Can I ask you something?” Sinbad asks, the noise from the hallway having died down in the minutes passed, the shoes and footsteps and curses and laughter conveniently fading away to recreate this safe space between the two of them, this space where only the two of them are, and where the rest of the world can’t get them, can’t threaten to break them, and can’t hurt Ja’far. The room filled with the warmth of home, the artwork on the walls, the gentle stains on the tables and floors making it their own, and Ja’far prefers it much more than his own barren space.

“I suppose,” Ja’far says, looking up to meet amber eyes.

“Can I see your hand?” Ja’far’s eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t immediately shoot down the idea, in fact, he pulls the pen cap from his mouth, sets the papers down, and surrenders his right arm to him. Sinbad takes it, and without breaking eye contact, unbuttons the cuff, which leads to a sharp inhale from Ja’far, and a half-hearted, half-completed tug, almost like a reflex, before settling it more heavily in Sinbad’s grasp.

Ja’far stays really quiet as Sinbad pushes the sleeve back and turns his arm over, looking at the white criss-crossing of scars over the light skin, running his thumb over a particularly nasty looking one that goes from the base of his thumb halfway up his forearm.

“You want to ask don’t you?” Ja’far says, his voice quavering and his eyes downcast, his lower lip being pulled between his teeth.

“Not if you aren’t comfortable,” Sinbad says, pushing the sleeve farther up, the cream fabric pulled up to his elbow.

“They’re… ugly,” he says, swallowing hard and Sinbad leans over the table, thinking that much like the paint stains and graphite marks that mar the table, that the scars are just a part of who he is, who he was, and where he has been, gently touching the side of his face, and tilting it up to meet his eyes again.

“They’re not. They’re part of you,” he says, trying to put as much honesty and emphasis in his words as possible, trying to put everything he can into the sentence to make him believe, understand. “I’d actually, like to draw you with them, I think they’re rather mesmerizing.” Ja’far’s eyes are flitting side to side, like he can’t choose which eye to look at, and his eyebrows are in his hairline, his glasses slipping down his nose, and it takes everything in him not to lean that little bit closer and press their lips together.

So he pulls back. He pulls the shirt back down, re-buttons the cuff, and somehow this feels more intimate than most of the sexual experiences he’s had in the past.

“You can,” Ja’far says, pulling his arm back to himself. “If you really want to, you can.”

“Yeah?” Sinbad says.

“Yeah.” There’s a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were clouded with insecurity and shame, and he felt like he was being pulled apart in different directions by his emotions, by whatever he felt with Sinbad and the way he felt about his past, and he knew, he _knew_ , he was going to ask.

“Did you want to talk about your night?” Sinbad asks, remembering Ja’far had never actually gotten a chance to answer while simultaneously trying to bring the topic to something more comfortable now that they were alone again.

“Maybe another time. I just… got a phonecall with some news I wasn’t expecting. But it’s a rather long story.” His dark eyes are sad, and his posture timid, his shoulders forward, like he’s trying to make himself smaller than he is, and its taking everything in Sinbad not to push him, not to pry and beg for ways he can help the other.

“We have time,” he offers gently, but Ja’far just shakes his head solemnly.

“Like I said, maybe another time. What about you, did you want to talk about what happened last year?”

“It’s really less of a deal than I make it out to be. Basically Kouen and I have never gotten along, we went to school together and we were always butting heads, we argued with each other at conferences, and there was one time we both got thrown out for disorderly conduct. He didn’t take that well, nor did he take his sister’s infatuation with me well.”

“Infatuation?”

“Well, at first it had been a friendly disagreement, and we hung out at his house to talk about our studies, and his sister developed a bit of a crush while I was around.”

“And that’s how that relates to the other story you told me, about taking her out.”

“Yes. Not entirely without motive, but I didn’t hurt the girl.”

“Besides her feelings anyway,” Ja’far mumbles and Sinbad senses it’s time to get off that track, immediately.

“Anyway, last year he called attention to the board that I was an incompetent instructor, and should be relieved of my teaching duties at the earliest possible convenience.”

“What reason did he have to back that up?”

“He basically said I was teaching with unconventional and unproven methods, which to be fair was true, and that it was inappropriate conduct.”

“What happened?”

“The parents called for my termination.”

“You’re kidding.” Ja’far deadpans.

“Not a bit.”

“But you won? I mean, you’re still here.”

“Not exactly,” he says whistfully. “The kids defended me to their parents, and Hinahoho fought with them all term and into the Summer. In the end that’s the main reason you were brought in, the only compromise they could reach was moving me to arts where my ‘damage could be minimalized.’ Those kids and Hina are the only reasons I still have a job after what he started.”

“That’s… insane.” They are quiet for a long moment, Ja’far processing and Sinbad reminiscing. In the end what had hurt the most was people thinking he wasn’t trying to help the kids, that what he was doing was hurting them, and at one point, his confidence had fallen so low he thought maybe they were right. It had been a really rough time, suspended from teaching, Yunan and Yamraiha had to fill in while he was away, and he’d had virtually nothing in that time, nothing to keep him going, nothing to work towards, and he had felt like his career was over. Kouen was an influential man who was unlikely to be silenced, but Hina had saved his ass.

“It was a hard year,” Sinbad mumbles.

“He’s the only reason I’m even here,” Ja’far says, “and I know he’s getting heat for it.”

“Why would he be getting heat for it?” Sinbad asks, leaning forward on his forearms, his body gravitating into Ja’far’s space.

“Look me up, you’ll figure it out pretty quick.”

“I’d rather hear it from you.”

“I’m not ready to tell it. Not again,” Ja’far says, and his eyes slip away, but the brief glimpse he’d gotten of them before he’d turned away showed that they had been full of shame, and his expression had been pinched with sorrow.

“Then I’ll wait until you are,” he pledges, leaning back again, and Ja’far meets him, something akin to hope lighting the darkness that had taken over his expression moments ago, similar to the way the sun gives way to morning, but one can never know what kind of day that will bring, be it sunny and pleasant, or tasked with storms, but it’s there, and Sinbad knows he’ll be there too, no matter what it is that’s following the precious soul in front of him, he’ll be there.

“Thank you Sin,” Ja’far says, tugging at his sleeves in that nervous fashion, eyes following the movements and not lifting to meet Sin’s own, but that’s alright. In this room, in this moment, everything will be alright. He has faith in that. He’ll be the sun to the other man’s darkness, until he can be his own light.

A few more minutes pass in comfortable silence before Sinbad’s regains his voice. “Hey Ja’far?” It was at that point the bell rang, and Ja’far stood, but made no move to leave. “Next weekend, we’re all going out to the lake, and I, we, thought it might be fun to have you come along.”

“Oh. I’ll think about it, okay?” Ja’far has his stuff in his bad and gives a shy smile before turning to leave. Before he gets out of sight though, he turns around and looks at Sin again, “but it sounds nice.” Sinbad feels the smile break across his face and he gives a wave as the other departs.

After Ja’far leaves, Sinbad has another planning period. His first and second are both like that, and in the past he had used it as a reprieve to go see Ja’far teach and oversee the new teacher in his environment, but today he stays. He has papers to grade and feels like the other needs his space. He grades for a little while, but he can’t seem to get his mind off the other man, and he flips open a new sketchbook page and… nothing. He puts his head in his hands and groans, wondering why he can’t just keep a steady flow of creativity, why it always has to be this way.

The third period is one Sinbad actually teaches, and he’s pleasantly surprised when Ja’far drops in halfway through. The kids are doing a printmaking study, so half of them are still carving their prints, the other half carefully aligning inks and pages at the press when the slender man strides through, carefully weaving his way through the meandering students over to his desk.

“What’s up Ja’far?” Sinbad says, moving to turn around when suddenly the other man is there, right by his side, bent over to place the paper right in front of Sin and rest on his elbow, the other arm pointing at a mess of equations on the paper.

“Can you understand what he was trying to do here?” The other man says, his voice barely above a whisper and Sinbad can barely breathe much less think, looking up at the pale skin of the others face and neck, the way his tie is slightly askew like he’s been pulling at it again, and his hair ever so slightly out of place from the way he runs his fingers through it and tugs at when he’s frustrated.

The gears finally click in his brain and he’s able to, more or less, explain what the student was trying to write and Ja’far nods, scribbling on the page without moving from his position, and then he smiles, god help him, at Sinbad and it is the single most beautiful thing Sinbad has ever seen in his life and his breath catches ever so slightly as the man retreats from the room with a whispered thank you, and the door is closed before he can put himself back together.

“Sinbad and Ja’far sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G-“ Aladdin sings from behind him and Sinbad jumps, not having realized the boy had moved from where he was at the printmaker.

“Shut up,” he says gently, ruffling the boy’s hair and looking down at the print he’d made. It was layered with blues and greens, overlayed with black, and at the top layer was shining golden birds flitting about the page. “That’s lovely Aladdin. You did really well lining up the colors for each layer, there’s almost no improperly placed overlap.” Aladdin beams at the praise and darts off to complete his other required copies. Sinbad has an easy smile on his face as he watches them work, and he finds himself thinking, not for the first time since the start of the year, that maybe getting “demoted” to teaching art wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

The next period Sinbad oversees a study hall, so the kids file in and he more or less leaves them alone to do their work, or signs passes for them to visit other teachers for help, or does tutoring himself. It’s at that point that Morgianna comes up to him and asks to go over to Ja’far’s classroom.

“I think he’s teaching a class right now actually,” Sinbad says, not wanting to say no to the girl reaching out to her math teacher, but also not wanting her to go over there and be a distraction. “What is it you need to do?”

“I didn’t understand the material on an exam, and he told me after tutoring I could try it again.”

“Does he know you’re coming?” Sinbad feels a bit of pride, having been proved wrong a couple times already on his original perception of the man, it makes him happy that he’s giving the girl a second chance if she’s willing to put forth the effort, it sounds like something he would do, and, actually is something he’s done in the past. _‘I guess there’s less of a stick up his ass than I thought,’_ he thinks.

“I asked him during class earlier, and he said it would be alright,” she says, and her voice is quiet, but fierce at the same time, and he decides not to argue with her on the point, and signs the pass for her to go. “Thank you sir,” she says before spinning on her heel and departing.

_‘He’s going to do just fine here,’_ Sinbad thinks as the door clicks shut behind the red head.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Do you want to have lunch with us?” Sinbad says, leaning in Ja’far’s doorway, bag slung over his shoulder. Ja’far looks up, pushing his glasses back up his nose where they had been slipping and smiles again, and gods that does something to his heart that it shouldn’t do.

“I have lunch duty today actually, I have to watch the seniors outside. Another time perhaps.” Sinbad smiles, because what else can he do when the man is smiling at him, and nods.

“It’s a date,” he says, before turning away, and realizing what he said. “Well shit,” he mutters as he keeps walking down the hall towards Sharrkan’s room. They rotate what room they’ll meet in, though Sinbad’s comes up in rotation more often than anyone else’s due to the benches and way his room is more conducive to holding grown people. Today though, Sharrkan asked them to meet in his room because he had fallen behind on grading and was asking, well begging was a more appropriate word, for help.

“Thank gods you’re here!” He hears as he enters the room, and he chuckles before sitting down and accepting a sizeable stack of papers to grade along with his lunch.

“Where’s Yamraiha?” Sinbad asks, noting that the blue haired woman is the only one of their group absent.

“She’s got lunch duty,” Spartos says from across the room.

“Lucky her,” Sinbad grumbles.

“Is that where your boy is right now?” Sharrkan croons.

“Grade _some_ of your work will you?” Sinbad says, throwing a grape at his friend.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ja’far is sitting at a bench off to the side of the quad, papers in his hand, glaring out at the yard. The sun is hot on his back and the brightness of the day has him shielding his eyes with his hand to keep from being blinded by the sheer reflection of everything. There are two of them on duty today, himself, and Yamraiha. The science teacher is off closer to the boundary of the school, seated in the shade, but he placed himself farther out to keep an eye on the outliers, and make sure nothing untowardly was happening.

It’s about halfway through lunch when she meanders her way over to him.

“Hello Ja’far,” she says, and the light bouncing off the goggles on her head is painful, but he smiles at her just the same. She has a very calm presence, and her aura is soothing, like cool water to a burn, and he enjoys being around her. He enjoys Sinbad’s company as well, but the man is more like lightning, there’s this static tension and spark surrounding him, but its not unpleasant, though there’s a danger to it as well, like it could be either the most exciting thing, or most dangerous thing, and he’s not sure which yet.

“Hello Yamraiha, how are you today?”

“Oh you know, thrilled with lunch duty, though it did get me out of helping Sharrkan grade papers,” she says, the last part whispered behind her hand like it was a secret. He chuckles as she giggles, and he was right, she is soothing. She’s mature, but at the same time she holds this innocence about her, and it’s a welcome relief to him. A welcome change.

“It’s not so bad,” he says finally, looking out, but his calm breaks when he sees a student running up to them from well beyond the boundaries. “Shit.”

“Mr. Ja’far we need help! They’re, I didn’t think he was serious, Kassim’s gonna hurt somebody!”

“Let’s go get the security – Ja’far wait!” Yamraiha yells but he’s already off, papers on the ground behind him and his feet pounding beneath him. “Ja’far!” She tries again but he’s not listening. “Shit!” She makes to go after him, but changes direction, running inside instead.

Neither of them see the grin spread across the kids face as he ducks away inside.

Ja’far hears the yelling before he sees anyone.

“You’re just a rich kid piece of shit!”

“Kassim stop! That’s too far!” He makes out Alibaba’s voice, but there are other’s doing the opposite, urging on whatever is taking place.

“You don’t understand Alibaba, we grew up together but you don’t get it, you don’t know what people like this have done to me! Rich people like this fuck’s dad are the ones who bought my sister, they’re the ones who ruined her, who killed her!”

“He didn’t do anything to you Kassim! He’s a kid!” They’re tucked behind a wall out by the football field when Ja’far finds them, finds two of Kassim’s friends holding back Alibaba while Kassim himself holds a gun to a shaking brunette’s head.

“Kassim!” Ja’far yells, his brain on autopilot, doing what he can as soon as he can to get the danger away from the kid, even if means towards himself, and then the gun’s attention is on him, trained to his chest with surprisingly steady hands. “Put the gun down,” he says, holding his hands out.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Kassim shouts, clicking off the safety.

“Don’t shoot him Kassim, do you want to go to prison like your brother?!” Alibaba yells, struggling frantically against his holders, but the boy simply can’t get enough room free to pick up enough momentum to get them off of him.

“I don’t care. That’s where people like me end up, whether they did anything wrong or not, we all end up in prison or dead, I’m at least taking one of these fuckers with me,” he cocks the gun, “and I never liked you.” Ja’far lunges as a shot discharges, and he twists Kassim’s arm till he drops it, pushing him up against the fence and growling in his ear.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he pulls his tie off and has Kassim bound to one of the poles of the fence when he hears a muffled yell from Alibaba, and turns just in time to see the boy being gagged by now only one of the friends, and then his head is ringing and his hands catch gravel as he hits the ground.

His movements are slower than they should be, but he doesn’t have time to think about why, doesn’t have time to figure out what’s holding him back. He can feel the throbbing in his cheek where he’d been hit, and there’s red staining the ground beneath him, but he doesn’t care. The kid the gun had been trained on was gone, his lanky form scampering back to the safety of the school, but Alibaba was still there, still innocent, and still fighting to help.

“Stupid fucker,” the one above him spits, smearing the spot of blood along his baseball bat. Ja’far swings his leg out, knocking him to the floor and pouncing on his chest despite the way the room is spinning.

“Oh you shouldn’t have done that,” Ja’far croons, tightening his grip on the guy’s wrists until he whimpers and the bat falls away with a clatter. He snaps his head a couple inches to the side as a blade whizzes by. “You don’t know when to quit do you,” he growls over his shoulder, noticing Alibaba is now unconscious on the ground, _oh they better not have given him trauma_ he swears, and he rolls out of the way of another blade, and the kid he was on clambers to his feet. “Two on one, that’s not good odds,” Ja’far says, bringing up his fists.

“Not for you,” the one with the blades says, a wicked smile on his face, and Ja’far feels one spread across his own.

“No, not for you,” he lunges then, jabbing the kid in the shoulder, nailing a pressure point that has his arm flopping uselessly against his side, and then seamlessly ducks to avoid the bat of the one behind him before swinging his leg out to hit the hand holding the bat, sending it once again clattering out of reach.

He spins to avoid another weapon toss before pinching a nerve in the kids neck, bringing him to his knees, and catching the now weaponless one by the throat and pushing him against the wiring.

“Are you done now?” He hisses, and that’s when Yamraiha turns the corner, gasping aloud at the sight before her, at Kassim bound to the fence, Alibaba unconscious on the ground, and Ja’far, a wicked bruise coloring his face, blood trickling down his neck from the almost avoided first knife throw, and blood staining the side of his shirt, where Kassim’s shot had landed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap for this chapter. I’m warning you guys now, my job kind of caved in on me and the depression is starting to get bad again, so it might be a little bit longer before I can get a new chapter out. I’m trying to get things out as soon as I can. 
> 
> Review if you can, they really do keep me going when I think about not doing anything with my stories. I also just love hearing your thoughts and comments, and if you have any questions I can address them for you. 
> 
> Also, this fic may be undergoing a name change, as I hate this one. Currently I am thinking of renaming it “Dark Side of Your Room,” as I got some serious feels for this story from the all time low song, the dark side of your room. 
> 
> If you are interested in following updates on stories and seeing snippets posted, catch me on tumblr at cassiel-of-Thursday.tumblr.com.   
> Until next time!  
> Cassie


	8. I'll Stand Here Watching the World -

“Ja’far!” Two sets of shoes came echoing down the hallway. A couple months ago, he might not have been able to discern the first pair, the barely there brush of feet against tile, but either he’s gotten better at picking up the subtle movements or those movements are heavier for some reason. He’s not sure, but the smile on his face quickly falls when he sees the sweaty, pasty face of Ja’far followed by a red and angry Yamraiaha.

“Ja’far?” Sinbad asks as the pair come into the room, and Ja’far points a finger at him, his words coming through his teeth.

“Not a word,” he growls before slumping into one of the chairs at a table, his right hand pressing his blazer tightly into his side.

“What are you doing?!” Yamraiha says, well, rather shrieks, and Ja’far winces.

“Get me a dissection kit,” he grunts instead of answering her actual question.

“Why do you need a dissection kit?” Sinbad asks, standing up from his desk.

“Does anybody have floss?” Ja’far asks, standing again, favoring one side heavily Sinbad notices, before heading to the door.

“Ok – what is going on?” Sinbad tries again, and Ja’far looks back at him disdainfully.

“No one is going to get what I asked for, so I’m getting it myself.”

“I’m not getting it because you need a hospital not a dissection kit,” Yamraiha says. “I know basic first aid but I’m not a doctor!”

“I don’t need you to be a doctor, I can take care of this myself.”

Sinbad walks over to Ja’far, grasping the thin shoulder under his hand and turning the smaller man around to face him, noticing he does so with a grimace and won’t meet his gaze.

“What’s going on?” He says, but Ja’far holds firm, his hand pressed tightly into his side. Then he shrugs off Sinbad’s hand and walks away, and Sinbad is left standing there dumbfounded before he wheels on Yamraiha. “What’s going on?” He says, concern manifesting as frustration.

“There was a fight at lunch with Kassim, he got hurt but he won’t go to the hospital.”

Sinbad groans loudly before turning around sharply, hair swaying behind him with the force of his determination, headed for Yamraiha’s classroom when he hears the rough opening and closing of drawers. When he reaches her room Ja’far is prodding at his side with his fingers, lip drawn tight between his teeth and the situationally inappropriate part of Sinbad wonders how it would feel to catch that lip between his own teeth, to run his hands down those lithe sides, but dammit those thoughts are for another time.

He walks over, grasping Ja’far’s wrist in his hand and tugging the blazer away from his side to reveal the stained white shirt, and the small tear at the top center of the burgundy stain spreading down, permeating the fabric down to where its tucked into his trousers.

“What are you doing?” He says, and he’s disappointed in how weak his voice sounds.

“Making sure it didn’t hit any of my organs, may I?” He says, tugging at the wrist still held captive in Sinbad’s grasp, wrapped tight between tan fingers. Sinbad lets go, opting to place that grip on the bridge of his nose instead, and then rubbing at his temples, trying to ebb off the headache he can feel forming. His antsy hands settle with the left pinching his nose and the right rubbing at his neck, feeling the stress knots forming in the muscle.

“Why are you not at a hospital?” He grunts, his voice a little high due to the pinched air passage.

“Because I don’t need one.”

“The fuck you don’t!” He says a bit too loudly, noticing a couple of students standing by the door, but before he has to do anything Yamraiha stomps in and gives them her rarely appearing ‘stern’ voice and telling them, a concerned Alibaba among them, to find something to do before _she_ found something for them to do.

“I don’t,” Ja’far says, a dark look coloring his face as he glares up at Sinbad, his fingers still prodding at his lower right abdomen, the tips stained ruby from the stain of his shirt. Yamraiha slams the door behind her before throwing herself down in her desk chair and glaring at the both of them.

“Well?” She says, her round face framed by her hands as she rested her chin in her palms and looked between the two.

“I’m not going,” Ja’far shoots without looking at her, and Sinbad sees something in his gaze when he breaks their stare, and it’s almost as nauseating as the wound on his friend.

“You can’t remove a bullet in a classroom, Ja’far,” she says, tapping her fingers impatiently on the desk, some of her earlier panic seeming to have faded and been replaced by irritation at the stubbornness Ja’far was so keen on.

“A _bullet?_ You were shot? What the fuck was Kassim doing with a gun?” He says, looking to Yamraiha since Ja’far seemed so reluctant to speak on the topic.

“I don’t know. He was threatening somebody in one of the alleys over by the stadium. A kid ran up to the two of us and said Kassim was beating on somebody, but the kid he was antagonizing wasn’t hurt, and I can’t find the one that warned us.”

“Well that’s not suspicious at all,” Sinbad mutters. If that kid weren’t being hauled off in a cop car and a minor he’d have hell to pay. For his own sake, and for Hina’s, he’ll just have to be satisfied with the legal ramifications the kid will have to pay instead of dealing out physical retribution for hurting someone Sinbad cares about, someone Hinahoho obviously cares about as well seeing as it seems he’s sticking his neck out for the guy and has warned Sinbad about hurting him.

He’s just about dying of curiosity about their enigmatic math teacher. His scars, where he came from, what his favorite color is, what foods he doesn’t like, he just wants to _know_ him, in any way, in every way.

“It doesn’t matter, someone get me some disinfectant,” Ja’far says and when Sinbad looks up he’s even pastier than he was when he’d first stormed the hallway, his dark eyes standing out in sharp contrast and his white hair sticking to his pallid skin, wet with sweat.

“That’s enough, you’re going to the hospital if I have to haul your ass there. You aren’t dying on my watch, on this campus. Come on.”

“I’m not going,” Ja’far grits out, digging the tweezers out of the dissection kit he had scrounged up before Yamraiha and Sinbad had caught up to him. Sinbad catches his wrist, keeping him from doing anything with the offending tool.

“Yes you are. I care too much about you to let you do this to yourself.”

“He’s right Ja’far,” Yamraiha says softly. “I can cover Sinbad, he can go with you.” Ja’far looks up at him again, and it’s the same look that had flitted across his face minutes before: fear.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Ja’far says weakly and Yamraiha scrambles around to get a trashcan to him but it’s too late, and the sick splash of lunch and stomach acid colliding with the already horrid tile color pallet resounds in the room. “Sorry,” he mutters, but before anyone can reply Sinbad has one of Ja’far’s arms over his shoulder and is leading him out of the room. “Don’t like hospitals,” Ja’far mumbles as they walk.

“I don’t either,” Sinbad says, and suddenly he remembers being fifteen and sitting as his mother’s side as she becomes more and more a bare skeleton and less the loving and vibrant parent he had known growing up, less the woman that played with him on a playground and more a part of the bed she laid on. “But you need help.”

“M fine.”

“Sure,” Sinbad says, declining the argument. “Tell Hinahoho what happened and where I am, I’ll be back.” Yamraiha nods at him, following them partway out, but diverting her path at the doors to proceed onto Hinahoho’s office.

“This is really unnecessary,” Ja’far grits out and Sinbad scoffs.

“You look like death.”

“You don’t know what death looks like,” Ja’far mutters.

“Actually I do,” he says solemnly, and an uncomfortable silence passes between the two, one layered with more that each could say, but nothing they are willing to share, layers they’ve kept to themselves for far too long, and have let fester like wounds months infected, necrotic and toxic.

The car ride is brief and quiet, the silence pregnant with the words neither can say, with concern Sinbad isn’t quite ready to voice, and not ready to get shot down, with worry about the other man as he slumps against the window, clutching his side even as blood starts to seep through his fingers, and a small part of him thanks the Gods his seats are black.

He hopes they make it in time.

Hell, for the first time in some time, a prayer flits across his mind.

When they reach the hospital, Ja’far continues to grumble when Sinbad pulls up in front of the emergency room, but there’s a wild panic in his eyes even as his energy saps from him; he half drags himself out of the car before Sinbad can reach him and help haul him through the sliding doors and into the facility.

It’s nothing like the scenes you see in movies. There’s no screaming or yelling, there’s not even a real sense of urgency as they walk in the doors, and Sinbad figure it has something to do with the steel faced calm Ja’far is trying to put forth.

After filling out a _obnoxious_ amount of paperwork, paperwork that Ja’far had been surprisingly secretive about – though Sinbad had to admit, his medical history isn’t exactly the first thing he’d want to share with someone, but Ja’far was glancing over his shoulder at Sinbad every few seconds, as if making sure the older man wasn’t trying to read what he was confiding in the papers, they sit back down and wait. And wait. And _wait_.

The lack of urgency becomes annoying once they’ve managed to check Ja’far in and have waited for over four minutes and thirty six seconds, the staff is aware he has a _gunshot_ wound and yet the receptionist is still back there, typing away on the keys of the keyboard like there’s not a man bleeding out in the lobby.

Sinbad can feel a growl rising up in his throat when a delicate touch to his shoulder jerks him out of the glaring contest he’s having with the doors to what he assumed would be where they will take Ja’far to be treated.

Ja’far is looking up at him, and he’s trying so hard to be strong and be brave but Sinbad can see the emotions behind the wall, the fear and the anxiety, and without thinking about his hand is reaching up to cup the one on his shoulder and squeeze it, any measure of reassurance he can give Ja’far, it’s his.

He would lasso the moon and give it to that man, wrangle the stars, anything to see that precious smile on his face again. Because the last thing he wants is this misery he sees right now.

Finally, a nurse with a wheelchair pushes out the doors and towards them.

“Ja’far?” He asks, and Ja’far nods slowly, almost as if he was thinking about denying being himself. Sinbad starts to stand but then the nurse speaks again, “I’m afraid you’ll have to come back alone. We’ll do a brief examination but more than likely you’ll be proceeding to an operating room rather quickly.”

“Can he come until then,” Ja’far says, in the smallest voice Sinbad has ever heard and it physically pains him, makes his chest feel like its being compressed, to see Ja’far in such a diminished state.

The nurse pauses for a moment, and Sinbad can see what the answer should be, and he doesn’t know what persuades the nurse to speak otherwise, but he eventually concedes, and only then does Ja’far delicately lower himself into the wheelchair, Sinbad at his side.

They go a brief distance before they are set inside an examination room and Ja’far is instructed to put on a gown, and the nurse departs the room. Which with a tomato red face, Ja’far admits he may need help with.

With as much self-restraint as Sinbad has ever exhibited, he helps his friend shed his blazer, unbutton his soiled shirt, and with gentle hands, undoes the buckle and button on his jeans before turning away, letting Ja’far shoulder into the gown, and helping tie it behind him.

With Sinbad’s help, more than Sinbad is comfortable with considering the mobility Ja’far had when he initially came into the school hoping to suture the wound himself like a madman, Ja’far is put on the table rather than back in the wheelchair, where he fidgets and thumbs his toes back and forth against the other.

A knock on the door has him jumping, which then causes him to hiss and grab his side, and Sinbad is out of his seat within the moment, rubbing soothing circles into Ja’far’s back. He feels a buzz in his pocket, but steadfastly ignores it as a another staff member pushes their way into the room with a smile on her face.

“Hello, My name is nurse Masters and I’ll be taking your vitals and taking a look at the wound after we confirm a couple things in your medical history.”

Ja’far’s back goes stiff at that.

“O-okay,” he manages to get out, relaxing back against Sinbad’s hand.

“Alright, good,” she says. She listens to his heart, and she take blood pressure and oxygen saturation, she looks in his eyes and ears, and then she pulls up the gown, which leaves Ja’far practically lying there in his underwear, the tops of which have also been stained red, not that Sinbad was looking, and looks at the wound.

Then she starts feeling around it and every time she prods at it Ja’far hisses, one time even whimpers, and grits out some comment about how it didn’t hit this or that organ he already checked. Every time one of those broken noises escapes Ja’far he wants to remove her hands from his body, take him from the facility, and keep him safe at home.

At some point, Sinbad’s hand finds Ja’far’s again.

“Alright, last couple things then we’ll get some anesthesia in here and take you back to get that pesky thing removed. Now, it says here under medical history that you are-“

“Yes. It’s under control,” Ja’far says and there’s an edge to his voice Sinbad hasn’t heard before, something dangerous, and vulnerable at the same time somehow. The nurse gives him a look but doesn’t press on. She asks a couple more general questions, and for his height and weight since it’s difficult for him to stand.

“Alright, it’s time for you to go Sir,” she says looking at Sinbad, and the grip on his hand tightens.

“Can I stay until he goes under?” Sinbad please, and again, he gets the pursed lips, the obvious answer on her tongue, but something changes her mind, and she says only until then, and departs.

“I don’t want to do this,” Ja’far says, and Sinbad feels his hand shaking even with the vice grip it’s got on his own fingers.

“It’ll be okay,” Sinbad says, and he leans forward, pressing his lips to Ja’far’s sweaty forehead, and the other man looks up at him like he’s had a revelation, but isn’t able to say anything, because again, there’s a knock at the door.

The doctor comes in and explains what she’s doing, or at least Sinbad assumes that’s what she’s saying, but he can’t focus on her, he’s transfixed on Ja’far who looks like you’re sending him to death row, and he can’t think of a way to make the other man feel better.

She pulls the mask over his face and tells him to count backwards, and his hand is shaking in Sinbad’s, not trembling anymore, a fully there shaking.

“Take slow, deep breaths Ja’far,” the woman says, but he’s panicking, and Sinbad can see he’s panicking, but he’s slipping. Sinbad strokes a hand over his cheek, and wild dark eyes meet his; there are tears in his eyes and Sinbad smiles at him gently.

“It’s going to be ok,” he says again, and Ja’far nods slowly at him before his eyes slip closed and his breathing evens out.

“All right, I need you to head back to the waiting room now, he has to go get this thing removed. Do you need an escort?” She looks at him, fondness in her gaze.

“No I can make it on my own,” he says, standing and pulling his hand free from Ja’far’s grip, watching the way it falls limply to the bed. When he looks of the doctor has her lips pursed, and she takes his thin wrist in her hand, flipping it over to bare the scarred side.

“Do you know how he got these?” She asks him; he’s already on his way out the door.

“I wish I did,” he says quietly before closing it behind him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He flopped down into a chair, groaning with his hand over his face. His phone buzzed in his pocket again then.

_2:27 Yamraiha: How’s he doing?_

_2:35 Where are you guys?_

_2:46 Hinahoho wants to know how he’s doing._

_3:02 We are on our way_

“We?” He murmurs, pinching his nose. He stretches back in the waiting room chair, one that is only incrementally more comfortable than the chairs in his classroom back at the school, and waits.

He crosses his forearm over his eyes and tries to relax, knowing his own stress levels aren’t going to influence the outcome of anything. He tries to take solace in the fact that Ja’far thought he could remove the stupid thing himself, that the doctors who are trained in this should have no problem doing something a high school teacher thought he could do, but it honestly wasn’t helping.

Every time the doors opened he’d shoot up, both hopeful and wary that someone would come tell him how his friend was doing. To know _something_.

He’s looking down at his phone, realizing an hour has gone by when the sliding doors at the entrance open and a chorus of voices say his name, some happily, some more frustratingly, some with concern, but all with varying levels of passion.

He looks up to see the lobby filling with Yamraiha, Sharrkan, Hinahoho, Rurumu, Spartos, Masrur and Drakon.

“What are you all doing here?”

“Yamraiha told us what happened, and we’ve been looking for you since,” Rurumu said, coming over and sitting backwards in the chair behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“I had to come look after my own,” Hinahoho said, taking a seat next to his wife, and giving Sinbad a pat to the head, and a look that told him he was pleased, despite the circumstances, with the situation. Yamraiha had probably briefed him on Ja’far’s reluctance to come, and he was simply relieved no one had removed a bullet in one of his classrooms.

That no one had bled out in his hallways.

That no had died in his school.

It’s a tense while following, of awkward chatter and attempts at light banter. Everyone trying to make light of the dark situation.

It had been a couple hours since Sinbad had been asked to leave that some commotion started.

Sinbad was out of his seat, and had it not been attached to the ground, the thing likely would have clattered sideways, when he heard the screaming.

“What’s going on?” He asked, standing with every inch of his height as he approached the desk, because through walls and doors or not, he could recognize that voice, and it sent a cold wave of terror through him, one that threatened to cement his feet where he stood, but that he was able to push through because he _had_ to. Because this was Ja’far.

He was close enough now to hear the panicked voices in her earpiece, the calls for back up and patient restraint, and the yelling that could now be discerned into words instead of ambiguous echoes.

“Get off me! Don’t touch me, leave me the fuck alone!” What hurt him the most, was probably that the tone wasn’t angry as it shouted, it was frightened, and sounded years younger than it should. “I’m not going back, don’t touch me with that!”

Sinbad couldn’t take it anymore, and if he had any inkling about where Ja’far was, he’d be storming the damn hospital to get to him, but he didn’t, and he couldn’t risk getting thrown out, so with heavy footsteps he collapsed back into his chair and closed his hands over his ears.

He pinched his eyes closed, but even without sight he could recognize the gentle touch of Yamraiha’s hand on his shoulder, and the heavy weight of Masrur’s grasp on his other, before they both released him to his anguish.

 

 

 

 


	9. As it falls around me

It'd been four hours since he'd parted with Ja'far, and only fifteen minutes since he'd heard the outburst. 

Sinbad had his head on Yamraiha's shoulder, her hand running soothing circles over his back. HInahoho, Rurumu, Sharrkan and Masrur were in the corner playing cards and Spartos was on Sin's other side, silent support but just as needed; Sinbad had told them they didn't have to be there, that there was no point wasting their afternoon here with him, and that he was sure they all had better things to be doing, but he had been assured that there was nowhere else they would rather be than here supporting their friends. 

"Visitor for Ja'far?" A voice called, and all eight heads raised to look at him and the man faltered, "Uh Sinbad?" The man tried again, a hand going up to run nervously through light blonde hair. Sin launched himself up, jarring Yamraiha in his haste and approached the white jacket clad man. 

"How is he?" SInbad asked, forearms crossed in front of him, trying to outcompete the pressure building in his chest, albeit unsuccessfully. The man, Dr. Finlayson, frowned at him, raising the clipboard he had previously been holding limply by his side. He flipped a couple pages then spoke.

"The wound itself is fine. It avoided any crucial damage and had just been lodged in the tissue. We were able to remove it successfully. That's about all I can say since he didn't sign any release of information forms, but he's resting now."

 

"Can I see him?" Sinbad knew the answer was probably no, but at least he knew he was alright, frightened and distressed, but he would live. That was what was most important to him. 

"That's actually what I came out here about, he was asking for you, though not quite lucidly. He woke up quite... disturbed and was asking for you as we put him back under. Though it is... frowned upon I feel like it may help him if when he woke, someone familiar were present. Do you know anything about his past? Any kind of trauma he may have undergone to trigger such a reaction?" Sinbad frowned and his arms dropped. It was amazing to him sometimes how much he didn't know about the other man. He had seen glimpses of something dark, of something simmering just beneath the surface of his friend, but it was never something they talked about, too concerned about keeping the fragile friendship they had developed. He didn't want to push the man away by prying too far into something so new. 

Rather than answering, he glanced back to Hinahoho whose golden eyes were still on the pair. He gave a jerk of his shoulder, beckoning the other man. He knew from the warning he had been given early on that Hinahoho knew something, and the significant look the man had exchanged with his wife hadn't been missed by Sinbad. 

"Honestly I don't really know that much about him," Sinbad confessed. "He doesn't talk about much, and we haven't really known each other long."

"You're the one who brought him in though correct?" The doctor asked, looking over the paperwork again. 

 

"I did, but it was just because he refused to take himself. I mean, we're barely friends," he said, and the statement hurt him because it was _true_. They didn't know anything about each other, he had no idea where the other man was even from, they were barely superficial friends, but Sinbad _cared_ so much for him it was insane, it was baffling, how someone could be so attached to a person that was such a mystery. 

"Hello, I'm Hinahoho, I'm the Principal over at the school," Hinahoho said, and the doctor extended his hand to shake the taller man's. "I was Ja'far's guardian while he was in school and now serve as his conservator."

"I wasn't aware he had an appointed conservator," the doctor says, fair eyebrows raised as he released his grip on Hina's hand. "In that case, would you mind filling in some blanks for me? We had a small outburst earlier and would like to try and prevent further incidents."

"I don't need to be here for this," Sinbad mumbled, because though his curiosity was burning, and he knew some of his questions about the young man were about to be answered, he couldn't stay. It would be easier to stay, easier to let the answers spill out in front of him, but he needed it to come from Ja'far. He needed to keep the trust between them, as small as it was,he couldn't let it go. Not for this. 

He walked back to where he was sitting, dropping his head in his hands next to Yamraiha and Spartos. He quickly realized he wasn't quite far enough away, though the men were speaking in low tones and whispers, the occasional word or phrase still managed to make it's way to Sinbad. They are mostly nonsense words, filler phrases, then there were the ones that felt like a punch in the gut, the first time he heard "abuse" cross Hinahoho's lips he clamped his hands over his ears. 

Yamraiha is rubbing circles on his back again, and part of him wonders if she's listening, if she can hear. 

It seems like forever before he sees shiny dress shoes in his vision and he looks up, letting his hands drop to his knees. 

"Do you wanna see him?" Hinahoho asks, gesturing back towards the doctor. 'Yes' is on his tongue, ready to free itself from his lips when he recalls what he'd thought about earlier, how they barely knew each other, how they were barely even friends, and he pauses, hesitates, wondering if there isn't someone better to be with him right now. Doesn't he have family? Shouldn't they have called someone, someone besides their miscellaneous group of faculty currently gathered? Sure, he doesn't know Ja'far well, but he knows he's kind and compassionate, surely there's someone who cares for him? Someone?

"Where's his family?" He finds himself asking instead and Hinahoho frowns. "Shouldn't they be with him?"

"They aren't around. Come on Sinbad, he's fond of you and you know it. Come on, they don't want him waking up alone again."

Sinbad nods then, part of him still unwilling to believe there is no one here for Ja'far, that the only people supporting him are the other faculty he met at the beginning of the year, how could they possibly be the closest people to him? How could he himself be the one they think would bring comfort to him? Though he knows, were the situation reversed, Ja'far's presence would be soothing for him... As crazy as it sounds, he'd want the other man by his side. Hell, he'd want him by his side always, if only to keep those forlorn expressions off the shorter males face, to keep the loneliness he's seen in the other man stay away. 

He walks down the hallway behind the doctor that had been talking to Hinahoho, eyes catching on the spare beds and wheelchairs decorating the otherwise sparse space. He was tired, so tired, worn out from the emotional toll of the day, from arguing and worrying, and he was ready for sleep. 

They stopped in front of a door that was partially propped open. The doctor pushed it the rest of the way aside, holding it open for Sinbad to enter. The room was bright, sparse and white, barren and undecorated. The walls were an eggshell color, and the floors were tile; the bed had rails and a thin white cover veiling the body of his friend. His thin wrists were wrapped in padded restraints and interlocked in the railings on the bed, and he imagined the same held true for his feet, though he couldn't see them due to the bedding. 

The color had returned to his face, what little of it was usually there, and his head was limp on the pillow, soft breaths escaping what he imagined were soft lips; lips he longed to feel against his own, but wouldn't dare attempt. Instead his hands fluttered at the bedside, settling for grasping the paler hand in his own, a gentle, barely there grip. The hospital gown was only shoulder length, leaving his forearms exposed. He looked back up at Ja'far's face, the shadows under his eyes, the freckles over his nose, his brows, which were usually drawn together in a pinch, finally relaxed, making him look younger, more childlike, more _vulnerable_ than he usually did. Stripped of his layers and defenses, of his walls; he was beautiful. His chest flared with the need to hold the smaller man close, to become his shield from the wrongness of the world, to shelter him from anything that dare try and dampen his light. 

He heard the door click closed behind him, and he assumed the doctor had made his exit, though he made no move to actually check and see. Without releasing the other's hand he pulled the chair off to the side closer, wincing at the sound it made as it drug across the floor, but relieved to see that it hadn't woken the male; he was sure that was because the other was sedated, but that was beside the point.

He slumped forward, letting his head rest against the other's thigh, hand moving from it's loose grip to thread their fingers together instead. 

He drifts off like this, and dreams. 

Dreams, perhaps, are not the right word to use. Dreams imply something fond, something pleasant, these visions were anything but. In his sleep he saw Ja'far, only younger. His hair was longer, his frame even thinner, his nails either too long or broken off jagged. There was crimson staining the white of his teeth, and deep purple marred the side of his cheek, staining the skin an inky dark, obscuring the fair freckles he knew should be there. He watched, unable to move as the scene played out before him, as this Ja'far, one that couldn't be more than fourteen or fifteen, stood in the center of a large cage, another, larger form unconscious at his feet. 

Dull, green eyes were fixed on the lax form at his feet, feet that were bruised around the ankles, leaving the ghost of shackles behind, the same circled his fragile looking wrists. Blood speckled his knuckles, and the shirt he wore was torn, and God Sinbad didn't want to know what kind of state the skin beneath the clothes was in. It seemed everywhere he looked held the yellowing taint of a fading bruise, or the red taint of a new one. 

A cringe worthy squeak, though it was more of a wail than a squeak, resounded the otherwise quiet space. He didn't know why it was quiet, there were people around the cage, mouths moving but the sound didn't come, nothing but the shrill cry of the gate hinge and the footsteps as two people approached the boy. 

Ja'far bared his teeth at the men, knees bending, looking much like a coil ready to be sprung, but before any move could be made on his part, something glinted from outside the cage behind him, the sharp prong of a needle. The men stepped closer, urging Ja'far back, and closer to the man he hadn't noticed. The arm bearing the needle moved, and Ja'far's head snapped back, somehow noticing, or maybe rather sensing, the man behind him, and he turned as the others lunged, grasping his arms in vice grips, boa constrictors wrapped around a much too small target, something that never had a chance at escape. 

He heard the man's nose break as Ja'far's foot crashed into the brute’s face, a rather remarkable display of strength, flexibility and desperation. The grip on his bicep faltered, not enough for him to get free, but enough for it to slide down to his wrist. Ja’far thrashed in their grip, and that was when the man twisted the arm he barely had a hold of, eliciting a cry from the teen’s lips, the other using the momentary lapse in resistance to thrust his knee into the back of Ja’far’s leg, dropping the boy to his knees.

The lurking figure that had been outside the cage previously now stood before the fallen fighter, a smirk on his face, and Sinbad, could he move, would have liked to yank the man by his awful goatee into his fist. As it were, he could only watch, bear witness as he pushed the needle below skin and emptied its plunger; Ja’far let out another cry, but this one not of pain, not even of anger, but despair. It was a broken sound, like one you might hear tear itself from the lips of a dying animal, and it broke Sin’s heart.

He heard rather than saw the splash of tears as Ja’far’s form went slack and slumped forward.

He jerked awake then, screeching the chair back as he jolted upright. His heart was thudding painfully in his chest, and he was still blinking rapidly, trying to will the remnants of the nightmare away, trying to urge the vision of a defeated and broken child away from his conscious mind, tried to bury it in the subconscious where it belongs. It takes him a moment to acknowledge the soothing circles being rubbed into his hand; his hand that he now remembers was interlaced with Ja’far’s. He glances to the side, meeting dark eyes, a smattering of freckles and a fond smile.

He returns the grin, his heart instinctively slowing, reassured the one he had been so worried about was ok, that the person it longed for was safe.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, noting that the other was still drawing circles in his skin. Ja’far shrugs, turning his gaze toward the window. “Hina’s here, and Yam and Sharr and really everybody.” This gets Ja’far to look back at him, surprise gracing his delicate features.

“Why?” A harsh laugh escapes Sinbad; this whole time he’s been wondering ‘where is his family’ and ‘why aren’t there more people here for him,’ whereas Ja’far is surprised even this many are there. It hurts, to know the other doesn’t see that they wanted to support him, to make sure he was safe, because they were worried and couldn’t _be_ anywhere else.

“For you. You scared us Ja’far,” he said. ‘You scared me,’ he thought, because of all of them, his composure had cracked the farthest, his patience had been tested the most, he had bent until he’d nearly broken in worry over the man, but he couldn’t say that. Wouldn’t say that.

“I was fine..” the other muttered, a faint tremble starting up in his hands, and he tried to pull away, but Sinbad held firm.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, golden eyes boring into the smaller man, willing him to look up, willing him to talk about the things that plagued him, the things that followed him home at night, the things he pushed down, anything. For a long moment the question hung in the air, heavy like the weight of a rainstorm, the weight of possibility.

“I don’t like hospitals,” he said finally. Sinbad fought the urge to press, to ask _why why why_. He wanted to know all the things that had impressioned the man, all the things that had marred his mind, the things that left him uncertain and afraid, if only so he could try and soothe them.

Sinbad waits, unsure what to say, choosing to say nothing instead, because no words are enough. Not really. He could have the whole dictionary on the tip of his tongue and none of the words would suffice. None of them could fathom the sense of relief, and that of the dread that was lingering after that nightmare. The words just didn't exist. 

It's a long while, a time consisting of Ja'far gazing out the window, expression passive, and Sinbad cataloging his features, marking them down to memory, the curve of his nose, the arch of his lips, the angle of his jaw, the way his snowy hair falls. Eventually Ja'far breaks it, he lets out a long sigh and relaxes into the pillow, turning his head to meet Sinbad's eager gaze. 

"You seem tired," he comments and Sinbad laughs lightly. 

"I think you're the one with reason to be tired," he says, eyes lingering on the spot the bullet had once taken cover. 

"Maybe I am," he muses. There's a smile on his face, but the expression seems off, and the glances he keeps shooting seem glassy, and Sinbad wonders if that's an aftereffect of the IV dripping in the corner of the room. 

"Do you want me to leave?" Sinbad asks, regretting the question as soon as it's out of his mouth, the feel of it bitter on his tongue. 

"I'd like it if you stayed," Ja'far mumbles, gaze turned away and voice low, as if he's afraid of the response, as if it could be anything but an 'I would never leave you.

"I'll stay," Sinbad says, giving the hand still in his a squeeze, a reassuring touch at best, but still one that left warmth surging through his arm when it was returned. They stayed there, gazing at each other in silence, neither willing to break it, and neither willing to look away. At one point, Ja'far glances down at his lips, deliberately, noticeable, before glancing back up to meet amber eyes, his dark ones soft, is pale lips slightly parted as he stared. It wasn't a conscious effort, almost as if Ja'far had his own gravitational pull that was drawing him in, but he leaned forward all the same. 

He hadn't made it very far before there was a knock at the door, and the same doctor from earlier entered with a gentle tap to the door. 

"Hi Ja'far, how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine now, I'm ready to go home," he says, unperturbed by the moment the doctor had walked in on, or at least, Sinbad had thought it was a moment. Now he was having doubts, maybe he imagined it, or read it wrong, maybe the doctor had saved him from something awkward rather than interrupting. 

"That may be, but we are still going to keep you overnight for observation," he said, his voice light, though going just off of Ja'far's expression, you'd think he'd just been given grave news; the color that had briefly returned to the other's face had drained, leaving behind a shade similar to the pasty pallor he'd had prior to being admitted, and his hand was trembling again. "Normally, it's hospital policy to not have visitors past eight, but in your case we have decided to waive that." Ja'far looks up then, straight at Sin, before removing his gaze, his cheeks dusted pink. 

"I'll keep that in mind thanks," Ja'far mutters, his gaze still downcast. 

"Okay, well, if you don't mind, would you pull up your gown so I can check the wound, make sure it's not bleeding through and then I'll set up a new IV bag for you and be out of your way, though a nurse will be in throughout the evening and night to keep an eye on your vitals." Ja'far nods absently, pulling at the papery cloth to reveal a side plastered in gauze and tape. The doctor poked and prodded at the area around it, and Ja'far's expression flickered ever so slightly when he neared the wound itself, but he made no sound or comment, just kept his eyes on the corner of the room. 

"What are these from?" The doctor asks, his fingers on his side now, edging towards his back. Sinbad couldn't see the side the doctor was referring to, but looking at the same spot on the side facing him showed thick scars feathering out from his back, tapering off to a point, traveling the whole expanse of skin he could see, from the line of his pants at his hips up to his ribcage. It was clear most of the damage was on his back, you could tell the scar extended beyond the small tip that was visible, though there were a couple that extended onto his stomach, angry red welts marring the pale skin. 

"They're nothing," Ja'far snaps, his black eyes hard and he drops the gown, obscuring the old injuries from sight. 

"Ja'far-"

"I said they're nothing," he said, though this time his voice wasn't harsh, it was pleading, and his eyes were pinched shut. The doctor let out a heavy sigh, but didn't push any farther. "They're from a long time ago," Ja'far says quietly, "they've been looked at."  

"Thank you Ja'far. Now, do you feel like hurting yourself or others?" Ja'far opens his eyes then, his brows upturned in confusion. 

"Why would I want to hurt someone?" He asked, his eyes traveling down to the restraints binding him, as if he hadn't even noticed them until now. "Did I- did i do something?" He asked, his voice small, shrinking back into the pillows. Sinbad took that opportunity to squeeze his hand, offering the small amount of comfort, letting him know he was there, that he wasn't alone, that he was supported. 

"When you woke up after the surgery you reacted violently. You attempted to choke hold one of our techs and were increasingly agitated and had to be sedated to get you to release him." Ja'far pulled his hand away then, wincing at the sound of the chain clacking against the bed railing, evidence of what the doctor had just said. "You also said some things while we attempted to pull you off the tech, do you remember any of that?"

"I don't, not really. I remember being afraid, and I remember yelling, but it's like it happened in a dream."

 

"Unfortunately we had to hit you with a pretty hard sedative, so that may be causing some of the memory loss and fuzziness. Have you ever had a period of 'blacking out' in the past? Doing something you don't remember doing, lashing out at people?"

"No, no I haven't," Ja'far says, but his expression is unsure. "Did I hurt him?" He asks, and his voice is meek, childlike, and he seems ENTIRELY sure that hurting someone was a possibility, and Sinbad wasn't entirely convinced of the honesty of the first part, that nothing like this had happened in the past. 

"Not seriously, we did have to send him home though. Are you sure you haven't experienced blackouts before?" The doctor presses.

"Maybe once or twice," Ja'far admits finally. The doctor's pen scratching on the paper becomes the only sound in the room apart from quiet breaths. Ja'far looks ashamed, and he's twisting his fingers together above the covers. 

"Just a couple more questions," the doctor promises, and Ja'far nods, resigned. "Do you feel you can be safe if we remove these restrains?" The doctor asks, and Sinbad expects Ja'far to say yes, so want out of them, but he shakes his head instead, and the doctor raises a brow, a gesture Ja'far doesn't see given his eyes are on the sheets again. "Why is that Ja'far?"

"I- I just want to be safe."

"Is there something in particular that triggered your spell earlier? Anything you can think of?" Ja'far hesitates, opens his mouth, and closes it, but no words come out. His tongue darts out across his lips and he looks up, worried eyes meeting Sinbad's for a moment before he tries to speak again. 

 

"I don't have good experiences with hospitals, or waking up around strangers...  
 he says, trailing off. 

"Did something happen in a hospital?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Do you currently see a psychiatrist?" 

"Sort of. I've been talking to Mrs. Rurumu for awhile."

"Does talking to her help?" Ja'far says nothing to that for a long time, and eventually the doctor folds the papers back over and sighs. "You know, Ja'far, sometimes when we experience things that we can't process, just talking about them with someone helps. Your conservator told me a little bit about what you've gone through, and that you speak with his wife but that you have never truly divulged your experience. It might give you some relief." Ja'far doesn't say anything, and refuses to meet the man's eyes. "Maybe it would help if you spoke to someone who wasn't so close to you, if you are feeling apprehensive about talking to someone you've known for a long time."

"I'll think about it," Ja'far says, and its as clear a dismissal as any. 

"Okay, press the call button if you need anything, either of you." The doctor says before leaving through the door, the click echoing through the eerily silent room. They don’t say anything for a long time, the stagnant air passing between them, the sun slowly falling further down until it dipped beneath the horizon in a crimson wave of color, the light playing on Ja’far’s empty expression, giving his skin a glow it didn’t usually posess and haloing his head, making it seem as if the man in the bed were some sort of ephemeral creature rather than just a man, though, it made sense; Ja’far had never been just a man to him, not from the moment they’d met.

It had been rough at first, but they were slowly smoothing the bumps that had formed between them, forming an unlikely friendship, one that Sinbad had gotten more than one curious question about, usually followed up with a subsequent inquiry about his dating life in general. He was hung on the man and he knew that, well, he knew that now; he hadn’t been aware it was so apparent though. Ja’far was beautiful, and not just on the outside, there was something that glowed and thrummed beneath the surface, and an underlying kindness that he seemed reluctant to unveil desperate as it was to be unleashed on the world, and all that left him near delirious with curiosity and wondering of what circumstances formed the man in front of him. He’d seen glimpses into that past, through the comments of Hinahoho and the way he acted after being injured, he could see someone thoroughly worn by the world, someone hurt by it, but he didn’t know who would dare hurt him.

Ja’far wasn’t frail by any means, he was lean and toned, and Sinbad imagined he was similar in high school; he didn’t look imposing on appearance, but it felt like there was something dangerous there, and maybe that was part of what drew Sinbad’s eye, something that called to him. He wasn’t sure. He really wasn’t. Sometimes there weren’t reasons or why’s to thoughts, there wasn’t an explanation for why he was so infatuated with the man lying prone in front of him, unwilling to talk, unwilling to share, but he was, and the answers could come or they could not, he didn’t really care; he was just going to exist here in this moment, and let life carry him as he always had, follow his gut; it hadn’t led him wrong yet. The only disturbing thing about that fact, was that his gut was telling him something terrible had happened to Ja’far.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He hadn’t noticed when he’d drifted off, had only realized it when he jerked awake again to the sound of quiet whimpering. It was as if he’d been struck by lightning, his mind connecting the sound to its source, and his eyes trailing up, no longer muddled with sleep, to see Ja’far, eyebrows pinched, hands clenching and unclenching, periodically tugging on the restraints and his mouth moving, forming silent words and formless syllables, distress evident on his pale face.

He only debated what to do for a moment, pondering whether or not to cross that boundary, and ultimately deciding he couldn’t let this just go on. He reached out, placing a firm hand on Ja’far’s shoulder, but he didn’t even have to shake the man before his dark eyes snapped open, pupils dilated harshly and gods if he didn’t look downright _feral_ in that moment.

It was only a moment, a couple of seconds at most, but it seemed to drag for Sinbad, as if the clock had gone from trickling water to creeping molasses, each second elongated as he stared into painfully frightened eyes, as he gazed on bared teeth and as his hand felt the rock hard tenseness of muscle beneath his palm.

It was only a moment. Only enough for Sinbad to whisper “ _you’re safe with me.”_

Ja’far snapped out of it quickly, his eyes focusing on Sinbad’s face before his expression dropped into one of painful embarrassment, his cheeks alight with color before shifting his eyes away, returning them to the floor where he had so often fixated his gaze.

“It’s okay,” Sinbad says, his voice quiet, gentle as he could make it, squeezing the bony expanse of his shoulder as it trembled, wracked with short gasping breaths. “It’s okay,” he repeats, and the gasps break into sobs. It’s broken and it’s painful and Sinbad still thinks he’s beautiful.

He throws his inhibition to the wind, reaching over the man and holding him tightly, grasping his shuddering frame, taking deep, deep breaths to try and impress the rhythm upon the other man. Tears stain his shirt as they fall, and Sinbad wonders if Ja’far weren’t restrained, would he hug back? Would he shove him away?

They haven’t broken apart when the door swings open and a nurse comes into the room, having been summoned by the alarming readings on the heart rate monitor Sinbad only now realized was screaming in the background. She’s quiet as the meanders the room, and Sinbad doesn’t let her interrupt his whispered reassurances.

By the time she’s silenced the screeching Ja’far has fallen into a relative calm, his heart still thrumming harshly against Sinbad’s own chest, but his breaths coming more steadily, even if they are still wobbling on the exhale. The nurse stalled by the door, and Sinbad took that as a cue, and released Ja’far, setting himself back into the uncomfortable chair at his side.

“Is there anything you need darling?” The nurse asked, and Ja’far opened his mouth, most likely to say no, if Sinbad had to guess, then he faltered, his eyes down before he spoke softly.

“Can we take these off now?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, and Sinbad turned to look at the woman, daring her with his mind to defy Ja’far, but was pleasantly surprised to see a soft smile on her face as she nodded and approached him again, pulling her keys loose from the emerald scrubs she wore, tugging the lanyard hanging from the pocket with the black diamond stitched into it.

“Of course,” she says, realizing Ja’far had never looked up to see her nod, though he does meet her gaze now, his eyes puffy from the tears and shadows forming beneath his eyes, but a smile on his lips, small and barely there, but a smile nonetheless. The restraints clinked softly as she removed them from his wrists, and Sin didn’t miss the way Ja’far tensed when she pulled back the blanket to get to the ones on his ankles. The hospital gown was short, leaving his calves exposed, as well as the dark red line traveling down from the end of the gown to near his ankles. It made Sinbad queasy to look at, but he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away.

She dropped the railing on the side closest to Sinbad before moving to the other ankle. Sinbad stood, and Ja’far looked to him, fear in his dark eyes, an emotion he couldn’t bear to see and longed to wipe away permanently. He sat down beside the smaller man, wrapping an arm around thin shoulders and pressing his lips into soft white hair. Ja’far tensed further for a moment, and Sinbad worried briefly that he’d done the wrong thing, but then Ja’far sunk into the embrace, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Neither of them quite noticed when the nurse slipped out the door until it clicked shut behind her.

He took the hand not wrapped around Ja’far’s shoulder and rubbed the rough skin there.

“You don’t have to hide anything from me Ja’far,” he mumbles, the words muffled as he spoke them into the top of his head. He pulled back slightly to look down at the other man, only enough to peer down at the dark lashes framing his now shut eyes, slightly parted pale lips and an expanse of freckles across his nose, and Sinbad felt the smile spread across his face at the peaceful expression before slipping back into the embrace.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My god that chapter would just not come out. I have had writer’s block off and on since the last chapter came out. I don’t plan on abandoning this story, and honestly the kudos and comments that have come through are really the only things that made this chapter happen, so pat yourselves on the back.   
> I’ll be back, hopefully sooner than last time, eep.   
> Hope you’re still enjoying it, and it should be getting a little bit more interesting here shortly.


	10. You're so close but I hope

It made the papers. Of course it made the freaking papers. Naturally, there were also angry parents. The guardian for Kassim came by with some choice words, and Hinahoho heard from many disgruntled families. They had to have a conference the day after, and they had increased lunch time security, which for the time being, also included keeping the kids indoors where they could be accounted for better; he hated this. Lunch outside was some of his kids’ favorite time of day and he got a lot of beautiful sketchbook entries from kids drawing the forest that lined the property. Besides that, they had instated bag searches upon entry to the building, staff included. This happened because so many "well-meaning" individuals were concerned about their children's safety when it was apparently "so easy" to get a gun on the property to begin with. The first day it had caused such a bottleneck at the entry some kids had been half an hour late to class. This, unnecessary (in Sinbad's opinion), policy was enforced a couple days after the first paper deemed school policy negligence as the main cause for the "tragic event that took place;" of course, the "tragic" always referred to Kassim. 

The papers, no matter who they quoted in their interview, somehow always painted Kassim to be the victim. "Troubled teen," and "disturbed youth" were common phrases in the press related to the incident. This irked Sinbad to no end; Kassim was troubled yes, but a lot of kids were troubled; only one of them made the choice to bring a gun on campus. Only a few of them bullied other kids. Only one of them did what Kassim did, and that was on him. Yet people wanted to justify what he did, and weep over his wasted future, his lost potential. None of the articles were concerned about the teacher that was actually injured. Often the only real mention of Ja'far was that "faculty was injured in the incident but is recovering well at the local hospital." 

Most of the articles glossed over Ja'far for the most part, and Sinbad hoped the lack of response concerning Ja'far himself was due to hospital staff keeping the vultures away from him. He didn't know for sure, they didn't talk about it when he was there Friday. They didn't talk about the incident at all barring the small excerpt he had seen briefly on the TV. Sinbad could tell he didn't want to talk about it, and for some reason seemed to harbor a certain level of guilt over the issue, though he couldn't imagine why.

Well.. maybe he could... There were a couple of authors that made Sinbad's blood boil, ones who had tried to insinuate Ja'far had used to much force taking the kid down after being  _shot_. For all Sinbad cared, anything less than, perhaps he was being extreme, and up to lethal force was justified; the kid pulled a damn gun, it was lucky Ja'far survived at all. This was something he tried not to think about... 

If he thought too hard he had nightmares where the bullet landed just a little bit North, hit a little bit more crucial location, and they lost him. Nightmares where Ja'far didn't come to them and bled out in his office instead. It was part of the reason Sinbad looked a little worse for wear walking in on Monday morning. 

It had only been a week, but it seemed like most of the press, good and bad, had settled down. They'd gotten their five minute highlights for the evening news, and probably slandered the school in every way possible because that was all it seemed the damn news did, but it seemed like the worst was over. He just hoped they hadn't bothered Ja'far in the hospital too much. 

He tried to make it over to visit, but between the few staff they had covering Ja'far's work and midterms coming he just didn't have much time. He had made it over Friday night, if only to grade papers while the other mindlessly flipped through the TV channels, only to freeze, blood draining from his face as one of the more incriminating accounts of the incident relayed itself in the monotonous newscaster voice. 

Sinbad had to take the remote away and change the channel to cartoons, and even that hadn't shed the shell shocked look on the smaller male, so he had climbed back into the bed, wrapped an arm around Ja'far, and graded as best as he could with his heart hammering in his chest and his brain  _demanding, pleading_ , for him to just taste those lips... 

He had been surprised to say the least when he found out Ja'far was only taking a week leave. Surprised, and at the same time not. The man had a work ethic like no other. From what he had seen Ja'far could almost literally work while asleep. There had been a couple of times he would wander past the other man's office after art club only to see the pale man at his desk, eyes slipped closed and head resting precariously on his knuckles, but he would still be moving his hand across the papers to his right, though sometimes Sinbad swore he also saw the papers on his left and wondered if maybe the man was ambidextrous; he wouldn't be surprised if he was. He seemed to be full of hidden secrets. Hidden talents. Hidden fears...

There was a lot more to the other man than he had any idea about, and he  _wanted_ to know. He wanted to be someone that could help dispel the darkness staining his light; he wanted to be someone he could lean on when he felt weak, because he felt like Ja'far didn't do that enough. He seemed like he would try too hard to put up walls, defenses, keep people out because he didn't think he was worth their comfort. That's what Sinbad saw when he looked at him. He saw someone lost, someone desperately trying to keep his head above water all on his own and still trying to save the other person drowning beside him. It was the kind of soul you didn't see in people much anymore. A kind of brightness the world had almost snuffed out with its cruelty. Something that still followed him to the dark corners of his room at night…

It was only a week before Ja'far returned to the school, much to the dismay of Hinahoho, something Sinbad overhead from across the hall while unlocking his door on Monday morning. He wasn’t sure when the other man had been discharged, seeing as he had been there Friday evening and it didn’t seem like the weekend would be a good time to discharge a patient, but he was here nonetheless, and if more people were on premises at the time there would probably be causing a scene judging by the voices resonating through the door despite it being closed…

"Are you daft boy?"

"I'm not a boy!"

"You're acting like one!"

"You need me here."

"Not more than I need you to take care of your health; you're sick, or have you forgotten that!" Sinbad couldn't see the scene, but he could feel the weight of the accusation, could feel the way it cut through the air like a slap to the face, and when Ja'far speaks it's a broken tone, cracking and pained and filled with venom.

"Of course I haven't fucking forgotten, how could I?!"

"Ja'far," the voice is softer now, but no less firm. "I worry for you, you know that. I don't think you're a child, I just need you to be safe, I need you to be okay, and I don't think you are."

"I'm fine," Ja'far says, but his voice is unsteady, and Sinbad realizes he had unwittingly drawn closer to the noise, close enough to peer into the small window, to cast eyes on the private scene unwinding before him - Ja'far enveloped in Hinahoho's broad frame, his own thin form trembling while the older man soothed him, his large hand running through the fine hair Sin longed to feel thread through his fingers; it looked like a father comforting a small child, the boy cradled in the safety of his parent, but Sinbad knew they weren't related, and once again realized how unaware he is of the circumstances surrounding those he considers closest to him. 

He had known Yam since high school, had known her when she was young and naive. He had been a Senior when she was a freshman, bright eyes and eager with the bob cut she had once thought was cute, a haircut she later went on to despise and burn all photographic evidence of it she could get her hands on. 

To this day Sinbad holds his own Senior yearbook over her head, both figuratively and sometimes literally. 

He had spent a good part of that year keeping unworthy suitors away from her; ones she was too polite to turn down but that he knew were no good for her. Of course, if she  _did_  know they were no good, she had no trouble turning them away, and it wasn't often subtle. By the second half of the year most of the kids knew not to bother, knew they would either be met by Sinbad or by loud hallway humiliation. He didn't keep her from dating completely, just kept the scum away from her. 

He was also the one who was there when her first high school relationship crashed, and they had burnt cookies together and watched crappy romantic comedies and made fun of the lackluster plots. They had stayed in contact through his undergraduate, though not as closely, and then they had reunited when she was hired on as the science teacher in his school. 

He had been there when her life had fallen apart. When the war had taken her father, and he had been there to hold her as she grieved, had, albeit poorly, tried to make comfort food for her; had stayed long nights with her watching re-runs of 'Friends' and 'Supernatural' until she shooed him out the door, thanks in her sad blue eyes, her hands still clasped around the old college sweatshirt that used to belong to her father. 

He'd been there or her as she screamed and cursed, pressed her to his chest as she sniffed and hiccupped her way through the sobs that wracked her delicate fame, thinner as each day passed. 

She still had hard days, holidays and anniversaries were always rough, and his birthday was the worst, and she always got stuck ruminating on how things could be if he were still here, if the stupid country didn't insist on continuing to send troops out to a cause that wasn't any closer to being solved and hadn't needed their involvement in the first place. 

He mostly had those marked, and he would bring her chocolates and spend lunch with her. Sometimes it turned tearful, and he wasn't the only one that paid special attention on those days. Masrur always hugged her on those mornings, and Spartos would often pray with her, she wasn't terribly religious but she always appreciated the sentiment, the concern he was showing for her lost father by praying for him. Hinahoho offered for her to have the first anniversary off, but she had declined, though Sinbad had to cover half her class when she fled in tears. Even Sharrkan always let up, was more sincere and less full of his bravado on those days, and Sinbad often wondered if he'd drop the act more often if the two of them wouldn't get together. They had been getting closer, their whole group knitting tighter each year.  

Despite that closeness, he knew even less about some of them. Masrur he knew very little about. The man was very secretive about his past; it was something he didn’t talk about at all. All he knew was he’d been in foster care, and he had been poorly treated until he was eighteen and had emancipated himself and left their care.

The two of them had met Sophomore year and it hadn’t taken long for him to notice the constant bruising constantly peeking beyond collars and cuffs on the other teen’s body. Sinbad didn’t like to take credit for it, but Masrur had often thanked him for giving him the strength to leave, the support to know he would be okay if he left. He hadn’t actually done much. Sinbad and his mother had offered the boy their couch for several weeks when he had first left, and he’d driven him around to find a job and housing, but mostly he’d just been there for him. He’d told him he was strong enough to leave, that he was worth more than they told him, and helped nurture the potential and helped challenge him academically.

Sinbad had encouraged him to try out for the football team, something Masrur had  _excelled_  in. He had been their star player through his Junior and Senior year, and Sinbad had been there at every game, and Yam had been there 90% of his Senior games.

Spartos he had met in college and had an extremely religious family, that had followed him even after he had moved away from them but he enjoys his faith; he doesn't feel hindered or stifled by it, but strengthened though he does seem to have led a very sheltered life. They had introduced him to a lot of things, movie nights as a group, TV show marathons, food tasting parties and liquor sampling. His responses to some of the content were amusing. He thought 'Friends,' Yam's suggestion, was funny but could be crude. He did not enjoy 'Game of Thrones' and found 'Walking Dead' to be violent. He thought 'Supernatural' was cult like but he enjoyed 'Avatar.'

He also knew Spartos had a younger sibling who had, against all his family’s wishes, had enlisted into the army. Sinbad understood why the family would be apprehensive, the war just  _kept_  dragging on and all that seemed to change was the fatalities; the body count on both sides rising every day. There were already whisperes of a draft, and Sinbad shuddered at the thought of that. He knew a couple students of age, and it was nightmarish to consider kids, literal  _children_  being dragged into this mess…

He actually knew Hinahoho actually through his daughter, who he had known through Spartos’ brother Mystras. They dated through high school and the two of them became a permanent fixture to their group despite them being high school age while the rest of them were in college. The two of them saw Yamraiha a few times, but not much. She was fairly devastated when he decided to enlist…

Mystras leaving brought Pipirika more into the group, the remaining ones trying to compensate for his loss: she was part of movie night and Friday night dinner, and Sin often went to her house to hang out and study. She was still in school currently, following her mother's footsteps in psychology and working towards what he believed was now her Master's. He knew she'd accomplish good things, and he hoped Mystras would come back to her, by the time he'd left they had been quite serious. He came home to visit six months ago, temporary leave, but was drawn back to the frontlines shortly after, and Piprika had been near inconsolable at the beginning.

Their group had only become closer over the years, though sometimes their closeness fluctuated like the seasons, and life pulled them apart for awhile, but it tended to bring them back together too, if with a few new scars scattered amongst them. He wishes that weren't the case, but sometimes that's just the hand your dealt. These are hard times, harder for some than others, but they don't seem to be easy for anyone. Honestly, Sinbad was just waiting for it to kick him in the balls as well. 

He parted with the door he'd been hovering, seeing as he turned around the two break apart, somber expressions on both their faces. He retreated, hoping he hadn't been noticed, and thinking he probably had managed; they had still seemed rather wrapped up in each other. 

 He finally made it to what he had attempted before he'd been distracted, unlocking his door and taking his place inside, behind his desk. He felt like a permanent fixture to the room sometimes, like he was a piece of furniture as integral as the desk, and there were days he seriously contemplated sleeping in his chair rather than going home. It's not like he had anyone there to miss him if he didn't. He didn't have any pets beside his fish, and he didn't live with anyone and up until now he hadn't felt lonely or stifled by it, but now, for some reason, it felt like there was something missing there. A hole his friends didn't seem to be able to fill, and he wondered if it had always been there or if it was new, if it was constant or if it was a new scratch that needed itching. 

He spent his first class idly tapping his pencil on the desk, eyes trailing absently across the students and lingering on the landscape outside, watching as what passed for winter here approached. He wondered if Ja'far liked the cold, the man's pallor certainly didn't indicate that he was originally from a warm region, lacking the melanin and coloring that most people this far South possessed. Perhaps he was from far North, where his cheeks would be pink from the cold, and snow could dust his already near white hair... He wasn't really paying attention but he'd picked up his sketchbook and started drawing what he was seeing in his head; a bright smile and warmth exuding despite the cold temperatures. It made him smile to look at, and he found himself joining the kids with their watercolors and dabbing the paper to life, highlighting the dusty rose cheeks and nose, the green flecks in his eyes. 

"That's very nice Mr. Sinbad," Aladdin comments from the other side of the desk, a wide smile on his childlike face. He and Titus both had rather cherubic faces, and he believed both were freshman. Sometimes it was hard to differentiate in his class, because there wasn't really a grade barrier; there were freshman and seniors, people who had experience in art and those who didn't, people who wanted to be here and people who were forced to take an elective and picked one they thought would be an easy A, and Sinbad liked to think it was fairly easy; if someone lacked the raw talent but clearly put in the right amount of effort and care he considered that to be even more worthwhile than the masterpiece someone put together on the bus on the way to school. For him, effort was always more valued than ease, if you put a part of yourself into your work, no matter how it turns out aesthetically, you made something beautiful. Not all people agreed with him on this ideal, but it was the way he taught, and it wasn't going to change, no matter the number of audits or complaints or jabs from opposition. His kids did well, and that was what mattered to him. 

He fought with himself for a long time. Okay... maybe it wasn't that long... Actually it was only about seventeen seconds after the bell rang that he decided to sit in on Ja'far's first class back. Not so much to act as a buffer, but to be emotional support, because that's what you do for friends. Right? Regardless, he stands outside the door an additional minute before a munchkin runs nearly into him in his haste to slide into the room. Sinbad smiles and follows in, watching as Ja'far's gaze traveled from the student up to meet his own gaze, and he's pretty sure he didn't imagine the small upturn of the other man's lips before he turned back to the whiteboard and the equation he was graphing for them. 

Sinbad took a seat behind Ja'far's desk, noting the usually rather immaculately kept desk was a little scattered this morning, ripped open envelopes and one thick manila packet that he had to fight the urge to turn over and check the sender. He was so annoyingly curious about the other man, it seemed like any portal into the other man's life he was desperate to peek into, but he had to let it happen on Ja'far's terms. It meant nothing if he learned everything behind the other man's back. Not that he had tried, it had occurred to him, especially the day Hinahoho had warned him about being gentle with the other man, about his turbulent past as ominous and lacking details as it was, he had been tempted. But he knew, he KNEW, that it would mean more if he learned it straight from the source, if he was able to see not just what happened, but the way he processed it, the way it effected and molded him, because that can sometimes be more important, how someone is impacted by events, rather than what the event itself was. 

Ja'far was elegant when he taught, every movement seemed precise, every word planned, even when the students had questions they needed answered, he was right there with it without pause. It was something only someone really in their environment could do, only something someone who really knew their subject could manage; he knew from experience it was because Ja'far taught himself everything forwards backwards and sideways so he had knew ways of explaining concepts to the kids, he knew the alternate methods and the small cheats that most teachers frown upon instructing, but he never hesitated. Always willing to share, and sometimes it made Sinbad wonder how they'd ever started out on the wrong foot when they were so similar. Though, that could be exactly why, the same way like polarity magnets repel against each other, sometimes nature just wants people to butt heads, but he's determined to stay on track now, to tread carefully around Ja'far, try and get closer instead of push the other away because screw what nature might want; he's always done things his own way anyway, and it's worked out pretty well for him he thinks. 

He has good friends, he doesn't have any complaints about his job, his boss is great, his art is doing well, and yeah, he may be harboring the world's biggest crush on their newest math teacher, but not everyone's perfect, and a crush doesn't have to be a bad thing. Maybe it just needs time, or maybe nothing will come of it, who knows. Sinbad barely knows the man after all, they got along well and sometimes his presence seems to comfort the other man, but that doesn't mean he feels anything for Sinbad, and if he doesn't, he won't push it. He's not that guy. Feelings aren't always reciprocated, and yeah it hurts like hell, but he'd rather be cool about it and keep the other as a friend rather than try and push and lose him altogether. It's not worth forcing some kind of ultimatum. 

He realizes he's getting ahead of himself, planning for what ifs when he's barely had a conversation with the guy outside of scholastic interests. Sure he visited him in the hospital, but they didn't really talk. He thinks maybe it would do them some good to go out for coffee... 

He's lost in his thoughts and doesn't notice Ja'far until he's right up behind him, reaching over his shoulder for a slightly askew stack of worksheets on Sinbad's right, his torso nearly pressed up against Sinbad's back, close enough he can feel the faint breath brush through his fringe on a harsh exhale and he turns on instinct, faces barely two inches apart, and finds Ja'far is looking at him too, and Gods it shouldn't take this long to grab papers should it? He's not breathing and Ja'far isn't moving, and the whole encounter probably lasts only a couple seconds before it shatters like the fragile thing it is and Ja'far is grasping the papers and shuffling back awkwardly, his cheeks staining a faint pink, so faint if he had any color to his skin you would probably miss it, neither of them however miss the brave soul that wolf whistles from the other side of the room. 

Ja'far sends a harsh glare in that general direction, and the whole side of the room seems to shrink in unison, and Sinbad wonders if it wasn't a group idea that some poor soul got offered up to actually execute. Sinbad just chuckles good naturedly, standing and giving an emphatic bow which leads to Ja'far throwing a marker at him. Sin catches it and plunges it into his chest, enacting a dramatic death by collapsing over the desk with a grunt, and the room goes up in chuckles. He peers up, unsure of what the other's reaction will be, and isn't reassured when he sees harshly crossed arms, but relaxes when he does notice the fond smile gracing the other's features.

He does notice that though he had initially thought his arms were crossed they were in more of a overlapping pattern, the bottom one wrapped around his center and his fingers clutching rather tightly at the spot he'd remembered the other bleeding out from. His expression doesn't betray discomfort though, calm impassivity as he teachers, the only hint of pain is in the furrow of his brows, and that would be easily overlooked by someone paying less attention... There's also a slight stiffness marring the typically graceful movements, and he wonders if he'd overexerted himself with the banter, or if he simply came back to soon.

That leads his thoughts down another path, wondering what it was that drove the other back to work so soon when he had been so seriously injured. Was it financial need? Obligation? Loneliness? The only way he could know is by asking... And he's just not sure they're there yet. He's desperate to toe that line, to delve into the topics that aren't just light banter and simple conversation, but at the same time he doesn't want to cross it. He'd spent time on the other's bad side, and it wasn't somewhere he was eager to go again. He much preferred the easy camaraderie they have now, the relationship that allows them to pop in on each other and share smiles and space, and as much as he'd like to share other things, he doesn't want to break what they have... What little they have...

He wonders why it's so hard with Ja'far, why conversation has to be this overthought and overworked thing. He's never been like that before, he's always been self-assured and certain when he'd inserted himself in other people's lives. When he helped Yamraiha he knew that was what she needed, when he'd urged Masrur he'd known that was what was best for the other, when Hina had doubted his talents as a father he'd known the words to help, but it was so different with Ja'far. 

One day he'd almost feel like they were going somewhere, like deeper conversation would be welcome, and the next it would be like that door had been barred overnight. Part of him wonders if he isn't having so much difficulty because Ja'far himself doesn't know what he needs. Or maybe he doesn't need anything from Sinbad...

He slumps back down as Ja'far continues to explain the worksheet he's handed out, and as he's sitting up he drags the thick envelope off the table, the thing landing on the floor with a thick thud. Sinbad goes to pick it up, absently glancing at the front of the envelope. It surprises him to see it's return address is a legal firm in the city and he shakes his head before putting it back down and tamping down the growing curiosity in his head. It's none of his business, he reasons. 

And it is none of his business. It doesn't matter what's going on in the other's life, that his own to deal with. He tries to tell himself he would be just as worried and just as interested if it was any of his other friends, that he'd care just as much if it was Yamraiha or Masrur who was struggling, but he's not completely convincing himself of it. He's not positive that is the case here, and that worries him. How invested he is. Because he has no rational reason to be, literally none, and yet here he is, gaze still lingering on the envelope. He sits back, pushing away all thoughts of it as he watches Ja'far do example problems for the kids. 

His eyes wander to the window again, watching the gentle breeze filter through the trees, watching one unfortunate student scuttle in from the outside and Sin just smiles. He had been that kid one or two times. There were instances growing up where he'd see untoward things happening in the streets, between kids or between adults, and he always managed to put himself in the middle of it. He always felt some kind of duty towards people, towards those who were weaker or less privileged, not that he had all that much growing up, he and his mother had been on the lower status of things, and a lot of there money went towards her hospital bills, especially once his father passed. Her health seemed to decline even farther once he died, and it was one of the things that kept Sinbad in this town; he couldn't leave her, if anything happened to her he would feel responsible. 

He looks up to the front again to see the last couple kids making their way out, though one student is kicking his toes on the ground, and standing off to the side of Ja'far, waiting for his attention.  

The kid seemed a little bit nervous, and it made Sinbad snicker a little bit. Ja'far's bark was way worse than his bite. The man was a big softie, though there was an edge to his personality, a sharpness that he tended to keep well sheathed. It had bared it's teeth in the hospital, and apparently had done it in the past as well. He wondered why that side of him existed, since he had seemed so disturbed by his own behavior, and he strives so hard to be good to these kids it would be hard to fathom he's truly anything but gentle. 

He continues to sit, tapping a pen absently against his face as the two converse. There's a thin sheen of sweat across Ja'far's forehead, dampening the ends of his hair ever so slightly, but he doesn't let his discomfort hinder him helping the student in need. He's patient, endlessly so as he practically reteaches the lesson they had just had for the boy, gentle encouragement and praise slipping through the instruction. As the minutes pass on Ja'far seems to favor one side over the other, and starts leaning into it. He spends a little over half his planning period with this boy before the other finally has his "eureka" moment and with a smile big enough to nearly split his small face, scampers off. 

Ja'far huffs out a long breath before turning, striding over, his hand on his side again. He gets right in front of Sinbad before hopping to sit on the desk, breathing a sigh of relief as some of the strain is taken off of his body. They're close again, Ja'far's foot brushing Sinbad's pant leg, the forearm resting on the table mere inches from the other's thigh. 

“You're pushing yourself too hard," Sinbad says, noticing now that the other is closer he's taken on a pasty color again, and the shadows under his eyes seem to have darkened. Against his better judgment, he raises his hand, brushing a thumb across the other's fair cheekbones. "Are you sleeping?"

"I'm fine," he dismisses, brushing the hand away, and Sinbad may have imagined it, but he feels like the gesture was gentler, more lingering than it had a right to be, and it tingled, the memory of the touch echoing on his skin. 

"It's okay not to be," Sinbad says softly. 

"I didn't ask you to care," he says, and his voice has taken on an edge, and Sinbad can feel the tension between them, can feel that he should pull back now, but he can't. 

"You didn't have to." Ja'far looks at him for awhile, a hard look, bordering on anger but not quite there, and then it's gone. Obliterated by a smile, and Gods if he could keep that expression on his face all the time... 

"You have pen on your face." Ja'far says, and Sinbad looks down, noticing the pen he had been tapping on his face was clicked open, and he laughs. 

"Where is it?" He asks. Ja'far doesn't answer with words, for a moment he doesn't do anything, his face pensive like he's thinking, debating, and then he's bringing his thumb up to his mouth, his tongue darting out to dampen the digit and then he's brushing Sinbad's chin with it and he can't breathe. If he could will his heart to stop beating he would, stop time and stay in this moment. Unfortunately it's not even him, it's not even Ja'far that breaks the moment, it's the door being thrown open, the sound resounding as it bounces off the doorstop. Ja'far turns to look, but Sinbad can't stop looking at him, can't take his eyes off his soft jaw and his feathery hair. He's beautiful, his profile bordering on angelic and he sees his adam's apple bob with a swallow before he greets the student that had interrupted them.

The student, it turns out, it Sharkkan's relative. Sharkkan's family owns a large business to the East and for the longest time, it had been the idea for him to take over the business when he was ready, or when his father passed. This hadn't been something Sharkkan had wanted, though he refused to be vocal about it. Sinbad had been working at a coffee shop when they had met. Sharkkan had been traveling at the time, supposed to be just passing through and had stopped in just as Sinbad had been walking up to shut the door. He had looked so lost and so desperate despite his impeccably clean clothes and well manicured nails that Sinbad hadn't even mentioned it was time for him to close up, had simply ushered him to the counter and gotten him a hot drink. 

 

They had spent several hours, sitting in the shop and talking to each other. Sinbad talked about growing up, and at first Sharkkan had been reluctant to share details of his life, had just insisted it had been very "normal" though he made no specifications about what that meant, and he didn't seem to think it was strange that there had been no more customers since he had walked in (seeing as the door was locked and the open sign off at this point). 

 

Eventually, after Sin had divulged his own concerns about leaving his mother given her precarious health, Sharrkan had broken.

 

He'd told all about how restrictive his upbringing had been, how he'd been in a private all boys' school and that this was the first time he'd really been away from his family's estate. He told him tearfully, though the other would adamantly deny that fact, that he had no desire to take over his father's company, and that he'd rather kill himself than spend his life there. He'd grown up with servants and he didn't know anything about hard labor, and Sinbad listened. He listened for a long time to everything the other had to offer, even as the night drew longer and his morning shift drew closer.

 

Eventually the other quieted, and Sinbad told him what he thought of the situation. He'd felt mildly hypocritical, seeing as he was advising the other to follow his dreams and embark away from his family even though he was terrified of leaving his mother, though for him he reasoned his dreams could be accomplished in this town; he didn't have to go anywhere to be happy, Sharkkan wasn't the same way, and that made him feel better. 

 

He told him to tell his father he wasn't interested, to spend some time away working honestly, take some time and see what he really wanted. Sharkkan had just looked at him slack jawed, like despite the privilege he had grown up with no one had ever told him just to do what he wanted before. His eyes had a sparkle in them that they hadn't before, his smile a brightness that hadn't been there before, and he blurted out that Sinbad should let him work there with him while he is in town. 

 

Sinbad had blanched at that momentarily, before he'd agreed to talk to his boss the next morning. Sharrkan had been giddy with joy and had practically bounded out of the store leaving a bewildered Sinbad behind. 

 

The next morning he had been surprised to arrive at 6 am to open the store, and see Sharkkan sitting on the front step, his outfit different from the one from the previous night but still just as impressively neat and clean. 

"What are you doing here?" Sinbad had asked, pulling his key from his jeans, The lock fell with a heavy clunk when he turned it, pushing aside the glass door, the bell chiming as they walked through the entry way. 

 

"I didn't want to miss this," Sharkkan said, eyes roving around the coffee shop like he hadn't spent three hours looking around the previous night. Sinbad was dead beat tired and his feet dragging with a scuffle. He decided for this morning he was going to start by brewing a pot of coffee and downing about half of it. Maybe then he would be awake enough to finish opening the store. 

 

"Well you could have waited until noon or so, how long have you been out there?" He says, dumping grounds into the filter and rubbing his eyes before facing the other man and proceeding to tuck his shirt into his waistband and reaching for his apron. 

 

"Since dawn, I wasn't sure when you opened," Sharkkan admitted, not a bit ashamed of his behavior, and Sinbad wondered if he'd ever been scolded before, or if he lived his life believing he was always right. 

 

"The hours are on the door," Sinbad had said, jerking his thumb towards the comic sans white font listing the hours as 7-10 S-TH and 7-11 F-S. Sharkkan looked unabashedly surprised and actually did rub his hand across the back of his neck, a sheepish expression on his face while he mumbled a soft 'oh.' "People miss it all the time," Sinbad offers, "half the time someone is banging on the door at quarter till seven cursing about how we should be open already." Sinbad chuckles and Sharrkan laughs along side him. "You can sit down, the boss won't be in until six-thirty."

 

"Or I could help?" Sharrkan offers and Sinbad remembered being shocked at the suggestion. He hadn't expected Sharkkan to even follow up with the job he had offered himself, much less want to start before he'd even been hired. He'd assumed that a sheltered rich kid probably didn't  _want_ to work, and he'd apparently been wrong. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, he wasn't usually wrong; he usually had pretty impeccable impressions of people and his judgments were typically almost scarily accurate. 

 

"I don't see why not," he'd offered up, and he really didn't. He'd already broken the rules twice. Once by not shutting the kid out when he should have, and now for having him on the premises before opening, what could letting him help hurt. "Here," he says, tossing him a spare apron they kept in case someone misplaced theirs. "Don't wanna mess up your nice clothes," he says, throwing a wink at the other male. Sharrkan had unusual looks, stark white hair and dark skin and vivid green eyes. He looked exotic, coupled with the way he dressed, he was a good looking man. Not Sinbad's type, but he could admit he was definitely conventionally attractive. Of course, at that point he'd never seen the other speak to a woman before. The first time he tried, conveniently only a couple of hours later, he had spluttered, tripped and almost knocked a tooth out; Sinbad had spit coffee across the bar with much less grace than he'd ever like to admit. 

 

Sinbad sighed, Sharkkan had come a long way since then. He had made it his mission to verse the other man in the art of dating, and they often went out to bars and practiced hitting on women (at this point he somewhat regrets that, seeing as now Sharkkan was  _too_  smooth, and it was off putting to the one person he really  _should_  be with - he was working on that though). 

 

His work ethic also has drastically improved. That first work day the boss hadn't even gotten there when Sharkkan had collapsed dramatically and declared that he was tired enough to drop to the floor. Sinbad had laughed heartily at that, knowing his shift still had fourteen hours to go and the other was already out of steam. He had told Sharr as much, and the other's eyes about popped out of his sockets when he realized how hard and long work days were. If Sin hadn't known any better, he would have expected the kid to high tail it out of the shop, smoke trailing at his heels. But he'd seen the spark of determination in him, and he was happy when the other's response was to roll up his sleeves and mutter about needing better shoes, but continuing to work regardless. 

 

He had crashed that night at Sinbad's, and what was supposed to have been a long weekend in the South had turned into a month and a half vacation while he was on winter break from school. There had been a lot of angry phone calls during that period, but there had also been great progress. Eventually it came out that Sharrkan's older brother actually DID have aspirations to be a part of the company, and Sharrkan's father agreed to give him some leeway, and allow him to transfer schools. 

 

Sharkkan never really left the South. 

 

He'd transferred with his half a business degree and swapped to education. He used some of his funds to travel after he had graduated, went and saw some of the sights he had been deprived of, had some of the experiences he'd never had growing up, and then, against all odds, had joined their rag-tag team at SHS. 

 

Ja'far spent the better part of the hour helping the student while Sinbad continued his stroll down memory lane. He figured it was probably time to have a get together. They had all met in groups of three or four throughout the semester, but it had been some time since they had  _all_ gotten to do something, work or other conflicts getting in the way every time they thought they had something figured out. Maybe they'll do a camping trip after midterms, go up to the lake and spend some time on Hinahoho's boat. It's not a large boat, but it's enough for the few of them, especially considering most of the time not everyone wants to be on the water at once. It's a thought. He wonders if he could convince Ja'far to go out with everyone, or maybe if he could make a trip for just the two of them sometime...

 

There were only ten minutes left in the study hall when the kid Sin believed was named Sphintus finally left. It made Sinbad proud to see students reaching out to Ja'far, and to see him making such an effort to answer their questions, trying so hard to make the subject something they can understand. He didn't often have that struggle, art wasn't something you really had to _understand_ , it was more something you just had to have a passion for, and you couldn't generally create that in someone who had no desire to make art. You could get people to appreciate a style or admire a scene, but you couldn't really light a fire under someone when there was no kindling. It also helped his subject was an elective, he didn't often get people who were dragged there kicking and screaming, most of them had at least some liking of art that he could work with. 

 

"Coffee," he finds himself blurting out when Ja'far turns around, the door closed but his hand not yet having released the handle. A fair brow is raised at him before Ja'far moves closer, dragging a desk around backwards to perch on and continue to look expectantly at Sinbad. Gods he didn't think this was how it was going to go, that he would be the fumbling one and Ja'far would be the one cool as early summer rain. 

 

"Were you going to follow that up with something?" Ja'far asks coolly, his elbow on his knee, hand cradling his rounded face. Though, rounded wasn't quite the right word, he wasn't angular, but he wasn't round; there was a softness to his edges, a curve and Gods he could draw it but words just failed him. 

 

"Would you like to go get coffee. With me," he says, and it comes out, thankfully, clear. Ja'far's eyebrows raise, and his lips part slightly, and Sinbad had thought the other had been being coy, been being flirtatious even, but it seemed he actually had  _no idea_ where he had been going with his blurted statement. "It doesn't have to be a date or anything, just friends getting to know each other. I'm not trying to be presumptuous about your preferences or push you into something but I thought it would be nice. Most of us here are pretty close."

 

"Is that your idea of asking someone out?" A voice asks from the hallway and Sinbad is ready to blow his head off. Kouen's beady red eyes are locked on his, his arms folded and posture challenging. 

 

"What, are you jealous? I thought you didn't agree with my 'orientation being allowed around children' anyway," Sinbad cuts. Kouen's eyes narrow but he doesn't change his even tone, pushing off the wall with his shoulder as he speaks. 

 

"I just thought Ja'far might enjoy the company of someone with more than two spare brain cells is all, though I can guarantee my intentions are far purer than your own," he quips before disappearing around the corner. 

 

"Sniveling goat faced crack addict," Sinbad mutters before he finally sees Ja'far, noticing only now how the other male had been talked about but not spoken to throughout the encounter. His face was whiter than the ceiling tiles, and not because they were stained with water damage - Hinahoho always made it a point to throw those ones out - and his hands were trembling. "Hey, hey what's wrong?" He says, instinctively reaching over the desk to grasp the others palms between his own. 

 

"I-I-" Ja'far tries to get out but his breaths are shallow, his throat tight and eyes shinning with unshed tears. He looks positively petrified, and Sinbad filters through the conversation he'd had, trying to pinpoint the words that could have elicited such a response. At first glance he finds nothing barring the insinuation Ja'far _might_ like men, but he didn't feel like that was it. 

 

"You know I won't hurt you right?" Sinbad says, Kouen's off-hand remark about impure intentions rattling around in his skull, and his heart plummets to the floor when Ja'far drops his gaze and the first tear strikes warm on the back of his hand. "None of that," he says, raising his hand to lift the other's chin, running the pad of his thumb over the tear tracks, wiping them away. "It's okay to be scared."

 

"When does it stop? I've been fucking scared for years I'm tired of it now!" He says, pulling away and standing, his voice rising on every word, fear giving rise to frustration, confusion breeding rage. "It never makes sense and I'm just - I'm tired," he says, and where he had been fire and brimstone seconds ago, suddenly he was crumpling, all the strength seeping out of his figure and into the floor, dissipating like a fog. "I'm just so tired," he whimpers and Sinbad's following him, standing in front of him and wrapping the other in his arms. He doesn't care that the door's open, he doesn't care that it's the middle of the day, he doesn't care anyone could walk by right now and see a hardly appropriate display; he sees someone, a friend, in need of comfort and that's all he cares about. 

 

Ja'far shakes in his grasp but doesn't fight, instead his lanky arms wrap around Sinbad's back, pulling tight fistfuls of his shirt into his grasp and holding on like he's dangling over the cliffside rather than standing in a classroom. Sinbad just shushes him gently, whispering sweet nothing of how it will be alright, and it can't last forever, brushing his lips over the other's hair as he speaks, unwilling to give himself the inches to talk even as the fine hairs tickle his nose. 

 

Thankfully for both of them it's not a student or peer that interrupts them, just the shrill ringing of the bell, signalling another hour and another period to begin. They pull apart slowly, eyes meeting in their close proximity, and for a second there's something, a moment of pulling forward before they pull back, an almost that's nearly heartbreaking and then it's gone. 

 

"Thank you," Ja'far all but whispers and Sinbad smiles. 

 

"Any time," he says, and Gods does he mean it. If he could hold Ja'far like that all the time damn if he would ever want to let go. His only complaint was that the other had been so distressed when he had been holding him; he would much rather be relaxing beside the other man, both content and relaxed, holding each other because that's just what they want, because that's what's comfortable, because it feels wrong to have space between them, not because the other is in tears. He'll always offer comfort yet, but he hopes it can be a different kind one day. Maybe not even one day soon, as every time he gets closer to the man it seems like he sees more cracks in the facade he tries so hard to uphold, more breaks; though to him, he's no less perfect even with the fractures and tears.

He's no less loved...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughhhh, this chapter just would not come out. It would not have happened without the support you guys have shown: reading the comments when they came in for the last chapter gave me motivation for this fic that hasn't been there in a long while. 
> 
> I got three fourths of this chapter done really fast, and then the last fourth and organizing it just drug on. Thank you for being so patient with me, and updates will keep coming. I'm sorry if this chapter's flow is weird, I messed with it like a dozen times before deciding enough was enough. So here it is, I'm still not very happy with it but it's here at least. 
> 
> I also do plan on going and replying to all the lovely comments in the next little bit, I have a couple people who are ahead of the plot it would seem - and you'll get the answer to your suspicions here shortly. 
> 
> Anyway, if you are still reading, thank you so much for your continued support - your comments mean the world to me: they have literally made me put down the phone (where I am reading fanfic) and pick up the computer to write my fanfic. I'm serious, pat yourselves on the back because this fic wouldn't happen without you guys. 
> 
> I love you all dearly, 
> 
> Hope everyone had a happy thanksgiving and I hope to have another chapter out before christmas (maybe featuring christmas with our Sindria crew cause holidays are fun).
> 
> Cassie


	11. That you stop searching

He relaxes at the warm expression, and catches Aladdin looking at them from beneath his lashes, doing his damndest to make it look like he's not paying attention to the exchange. Ja'far takes the sheet of paper with Sinbad's scrawled 'That I'll miss you over break,' note, pen in a slightly shaking hand and writes his reply. If someone ever asked him about this moment, he would deny to his last breath that he was on the edge of his seat with anticipation and that his lungs had frozen, refusing to perform their duties while he awaited the small scraps return. The hall could have been burning down around them and he probably wouldn't have noticed, wouldn't notice even if the very room set itself ablaze; he'd probably blame the heat on his anxiety and be incinerated in his seat. 

That wasn't a happy thought... 

Finally, hesitantly, Ja'far slid the paper back to him. There's a couple of places where he'd begun a response, only to scratch it away and begin again. There was ink smudged on his palm and Sinbad was quick to take it before the other pressed it to his cheek and smeared the dark stain. Ja'far's breath caught at the action and Sinbad smiled, turning over his hand to show him the smudge and Ja'far laughed, a melodic sound that echoed the heavy quiet of the room, and that Sinbad wished would continue to resonate back to him for the rest of the day, maybe even the week. His laugh was almost a musical thing, like a breath of air after spending minutes drowning, like water after miles running under the scorching heat, like the relief you didn't even know you needed from the day, the sound you didn't know existed but yet your soul had been longing for since forever.              

Then he saw the rest of the words on the note. 

'You could see me if you'd like..."

If Sinbad spends the rest of the day on cloud nine, well, who could blame him. He had a date - an honest to god date - no work, off school property, date. Finding out Kouen was also invited to the staff Christmas party only brought him down to cloud eight. Or at least that's what he kept telling himself; in all honestly, he was pretty pissed Hina would invite him. It had always felt like more of a family event than a work one, but whatever. He could play nice. He hoped. 

This was the last full day the kids had until midterms, and naturally, it was beginning to show in both faculty and student populations. The kids were stressed and tired, the staff only minimally lesser. When Sinbad stopped by Yam's room that morning she looked about ready to set fire to the papers she was grading. 

"Hey," he says, a gentle rap on the doorframe before entering. She looks up at him, her hair a bundled mess on the top of her head, and one seashell earring dangling, the other caught up in the whirlwind of her bun. 

"Hi," she offers, and her voice is worn, her demeanor practically screaming 'I'm running on coffee and I dare you to say something about it.'

"Not going well?" He offers up, noticing the amount of red scrawl on the sheet topping her pile. 

"Understatement," she mumbles. "Sometimes I wonder where their minds are, we went over half of this in class!" She exclaims, making a wide gesture that also accidentally looses the pen from her hand and sends it clattering across the room. She drops her head to the desk with a groan. Sinbad chuckles before retrieving her fallen pen. 

"Did you still want to get together and grade finals next week?" He asked her. It had been a somewhat long standing tradition of theirs. They all met up at someone's apartment or home and graded together, first their own exams, and then they would look over someone  else's to check for mistakes or places that partial credit might be applicable. There was also typically liquor involved at some point, and it almost never started AFTER the grading was done. Despite what students think, a teacher is never pleased to fail a student, and often times, they just end up looking at poorly marked papers wondering where they went wrong, and how they can help bridge the knowledge gap. There's no glee in seeing poor grades, especially not for Sinbad. Though he has less of that problem this year, considering he's teaching art rather than math: he has a lot of freedom for lenience in the arts, and though the midterm does have quite a bit to do with art history, projects generally receive overall high marks in his class. 

"If I'm not dead by then," she offers petulantly. Sinbad smirks. 

"Don't count yourself out yet," he says, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before moving on to his next target. 

Masrur is considerably less stressed than Yamraiha was, though apparently his class had finished their study guides the previous week, and had already gone over corrections and resubmitted them. Masrur was a little bit better of a planner than Yamraiha; she always got a little too caught up day to day and let dates, like midterms and final grade submissions due, sneak up on her. 

When he stops by Sharr's class, he finds the man setting up his usual study game. He doesn't do formal study guides like most teachers, instead opting for a more fun and less involved approach. This approach also usually features questions directly from the exam. Sinbad doesn't particularly approve of that fact, but the kids do learn, seeing as the standardized end of course scores tend to still come out fairly high, and they have fun, which is more important than his own misgivings regarding that form of direction. 

Spartos favors powerpoints. Which Sinbad despises. But the level of organization helps some students. He's the most together of the group, always having his lesson plans complete and homework graded with his flawless handwriting, though the man can't write cursive to save his life, his print is to die for.  

In the end, they all have their own method that works for them, and their own ways of helping the kids that don't click with their teaching approach. It's part of why Hina keeps them all here. Plenty of teachers can get good marks from students, whether it be from excruciating coursework or feeding them the answers, but everyone at SHS has a genuine desire to help kids _learn_ and to not squash their desire to do it in the process. Sinbad had lost count of the kids he knew who had been children that loved learning, that would read anything they got their hands on and would _ask_ for more information, and then they got into the school system and were loaded down with homework and exams and grew to absolutely detest anything that reminded them of school. Learning became a chore instead of a pleasure, and he hated that, and he tried his best not to do that to his students. 

It was the end of the day, final bells had rung ten minutes ago, and there was a mix of apprehension and relief in the air. Apprehension, because it was the last full day before finals, and relief, because it was the last full day before finals. Most of his students had already turned in their midterm projects, and the ones that hadn't he wasn't worried about. They had until the beginning of their actual final tot urn it in before late grades started coming out, which meant they still had the weekend and Monday to finish up. 

He slung his messenger bag over his shoulder, the worn leather fitting comfortably across his chest before heading out the door. He clicked the lock, but lingered for a moment, his eyes unwittingly traveling to the door almost right across from his. He stood there just long enough to see a student he was almost positive wasn't in Ja'far's class leave clutching a calculator and handouts looking rather pleased with himself. 

Sinbad gave a courtesy wave to the kid as he passed, and the other smiled, though his hands were too full to return the gesture fully. Curiosity got the better of him, and instead of going to his car and getting some well deserved rest on his couch after watching some TV, he turned left and headed into Ja'far's classroom. 

He rapped lightly on the door as he entered, not waiting for a response since it was ajar already. Ja'far looked about as bad as most of the students, and his state had Sinbad immensely concerned. He wanted him to care about the kids, but not to run himself into the ground over it. Hell, he was still recovering, he needed to take it easy, not look like he'd just been drug around the parking lot. 

"Did you need something?" Ja'far asked and Sinbad realized he had paused in the doorway, looking awkward and misplaced he continued forward until he was right in front of the other's desk. 

"I think the more important question is do you need something?" Sinbad counters, his expression damn near pleading for Ja'far to ask him for something, _anything_ , that would lessen the burden obviously weighing him down. Ja'far pursed his lips, his features guarded.

"Shit," he mumbles before clasping over his mouth and then he's just _gone_. Footsteps echoing down the hallway. Sinbad's left standing there, dumbfounded before his brain finally catches up and he follows the retreating echoes to see if Ja'far is okay. 

He's halfway down the hall when he's met with the sound of wet coughing. He slows, going from a near sprint to a light jog at this point, his footsteps a cringe worthy weight in the otherwise quiet. He hears splashing and gagging when he's in the entrance to the general men's restroom and he enters hesitantly. 

"Ja'far?" He offers quietly. He's in the first stall, hunched over the toilet with the door ajar. "Are you alright?"

"Please go away," he mutters weakly before another round of retching takes over, his muscles contracting and ejecting everything he'd eaten that day. He moans quietly, a despairing sound before spitting into the bowl and flushing the contents down, but not before Sinbad notices a disturbing splash of red coloring the swirling water. 

"Do you want some water?" Sin asks, and Ja'far turns to glare at him, but it's a weak look, watered down by the sheen of sweat and the splotchy reddened, pale complexion discoloring his normally fair skin. He looks miserable, and the expression falls away completely in seconds and he's turned around, heaving his guts into the porcelain bowl. 

"Fine," he says, "water, please." Sinbad hurries to the water fountain, before he realizes he didn't bring anything to put the water in besides his palms, which he hardly considers to be an option. He curses himself before retreating back to his room to find one of the cups he keeps normally reserved for paint water but that has been cleaned and goes back to fill it.

Despite his earlier request for Sin to leave, Ja'far seems relieved when he returns. Their fingers brush as he's handing over the cup, and even in that brief contact he can tell the other man is warm, and he's not sure if it's exertion or fever bringing up his temperature. 

"Are you alright?" Sinbad asks. 

"That's a pointless question," Ja'far bites, and it seems like a lot of the hostility Sinbad had thought was long behind them was making a reappearance. Sinbad can't find it in him to be bothered by it though, the other man is obviously miserable and vulnerable right now, he'd probably respond in a similar way if it were him in that position. 

                  "Okay, I'll take that as a no. Are you sick?" He rephrases.

"Generally," he says, and it's so quiet Sinbad isn't sure he was supposed to hear it. "No I'm not," the last word is choked, cut off by another heave and more of his stomach being spilled. Sinbad stays quiet, not quite able to formulate an appropriate response. 

Eventually, Ja'far is able to get up, and he staggers to the sink, his balance on his legs uneasy at best. Sin's hand is an anchor on his elbow, and though he feels terrible and just about the last thing he wants right now is to be touched, he lets it be. He turns the handle, cold water spluttering out before a steady stream is worked up, and he cups some in his hands before splashing it onto his reddened face, the ends of his hair catching some of the excess, other remnants falling further and dampening his collar. He's trembling, a barely there tremor, and Sin is more than a little bit concerned. 

Ja'far holds his own better on the way back to the classroom, and Sinbad reluctantly pulls back his arm from the other. His hands twitchy at his own sides at the view of his friend in such a precarious state. Ja'far slumps into his chair when they finally make it back, folding forward and dropping his head gracelessly on the desk. Sinbad winces a bit at the thud his skull makes on the wood. He's not sure if his presence is wanted or not, but he's pretty sure if it was _unwanted_ he would have been dismissed already, and so he stays. 

"Do you want a ride home?" He finally asks, unable to take the unnerving silence anymore. He's always been ridiculously empathetic, but there's a new deepness to the way his heart aches at seeing Ja'far in pain; it's not unlike how he felt when Yamraiha was crumbling in front of him after her father died, but it's still unique in it's own way. In a way it's frightening, that he could feel that strongly over something that, logically, probably is nothing more than a stomach bug, even though there's a tugging in his gut telling him it's more. He reasons it's just anxiety, concern bubbling out from its container and staining the rest of his normally well controlled thoughts. Ja'far makes no effort at moving, and doesn't offer any kind of response for an extended time, and Sinbad wonders if he's about to get his head bitten off again; Ja'far seems particularly testy when he isn't feeling well, and Sinbad tries not to take it personally. 

Sinbad is about to check and make sure Ja'far is conscious when he decides to dignify his question with a response. At first it's just a low groaning sound, and he gets halfway through shaking his head before he looks up and meets Sinbad's gaze where he's leaning against the chalkboard, arms crossed over the loosely buttoned white shirt. Ja'far's glasses are on the desk, and his hair is wild, and there's something in Sin that's reaching out to straighten those locks, to make him chicken noodle soup and sprite and make him watch crappy daytime TV. Warmth spreads through him at the thought, and it's a different kind of warmth than the one he feels when he imagines how the other's pale lips would feel against his own, how he would taste if he finally got a chance to find out, and he realizes there's not one he wants more than the other. He wants both; he wants everything with Ja'far, and he's not sure if he hates it, or loves it. 

His mind briefly thinks about that little movie about the emotions in the girl's head, and he feels like his have taken 'reasoning' and tied him up in a corner somewhere because nothing he is doing or wants makes any sense, he feels like half his emotions are fighting the others and no one's winning, and it's just leaving him with this conflict he isn't sure what to do with, this mix of feeling that's just too much to work through while those sparkling green eyes are staring at him and a dejected, "that would probably be best," escapes those lips. 

Sinbad still has his bag slung over his shoulder, so he pushes off the wall and walks over to help Ja'far gather the things he's going to need for the evening. 

Ja'far runs his hands through his hair before he stands, one hand on the desk, supporting him heavily as he raises himself up. The image before Sinbad is such a stark contrast from the way Ja'far usually presents himself it's frightening, and he's transfixed by it, standing un-moving until the rustle of papers being crammed in Ja'far's bag alerts him. He moves to the other man's side and takes the bag from a grip he had thought would have fought him more, but didn't. They pack what they can into the bag, after Sinbad realigns some of the items Ja'far had haphazardly shoved in there, and he takes the rest of the stack of papers Ja'far gestures to into his arms. He's moving about better, but Sinbad keeps both bags and the loose papers even when Ja'far asks for them. Again, he's surprised when his actions aren't met with some sort of indignant gesture or argument, his posture strangely subdued for someone typically so virulent. 

They make it to the door before Ja'far turns around sharply and goes back to the desk, some of his usual flow returning to his stride, but the sheen to his skin and the shadows beneath his eyes are still prominent, making him look more a reaper or a phantom than a fully corporal human. He opens a drawer with enough force to rattle it in its track and snatches a clear plastic bag from it, a bag with an assortment of colored pills, sizes and colors differing, and Sin only catches a glimpse before it's shoved hastily into the pockets of his dark slacks. Ja'far keeps his eyes down as he walks past Sinbad, muttering "let's go," as he passes, but refuses to acknowledge what had just transpired. 

Sinbad takes it in stride, and takes long steps to catch up and fall into stride beside Ja'far as they walk out of the school. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so damn long to update. I just had a baby (he's eight weeks old now and I'm finally back to work where I actually have time to write). Please review, I love to hear from you guys and it never fails to motivate me to get my but writing instead of reading. Thanks for sticking with it <3 
> 
> (last time I change the title I promise.


	12. I don't want you to

The silence isn't uncomfortable as they drive. It's not one he feels pressured to fill with meaningless conversation or with radio noise; it's just there. Ja'far's glasses are perched atop his head, his chin resting in his palm as he looks out the window, and Sinbad wonders what he's seeing, if it's just a kaleidoscope of color or maybe he's not even really looking at the world, but beyond it. Sinbad keeps having to remind himself to keep his eyes on the road and not his companion. 

It's not a long drive. Their interaction at the school had allowed most of the early afternoon traffic to bypass them, and they were able to get out smoothly. It wasn't until halfway there that Sinbad realized he was supposed to be taking Ja'far home, and that he had no idea where the other lived. He slowed the car, an affordable and reliable Jeep that had been his college graduation gift from his parents. He'd never had the heart to replace it, given how much he knew they had to have saved for it; his family had never been wealthy, not to say they were terrible poor, but money was something they definitely had to keep on eye on, and luxuries weren't often in the budget for them, so he cherished their gift, even if he'd long been able to acquire something a little more fuel efficient and a little less faded. 

When his mind focused again, he realized they were very nearly in his own apartment complex, and he made a decision. Though, he probably should have consulted Ja'far first, he figured he was more likely to be faced with stubborn argument rather than any real objections to his idea. 

He pulls in, and he's determined at this point that Ja'far is not in fact paying attention to what they're doing, or he's still not feeling well enough to care. He figures it's more likely the former, but both seem rather unlikely considering how guarded Ja'far typically is. He shakes his head, squinting as the sun burns brightly through one of the gaps in buildings and shines right into his eyes. He's reaching for his sunglasses when he catches the way the sun is hitting Ja'far, making his hair damn near luminescent, and his normally dark eyes shine through with their forest green strains, his pale skin given a warm glow by the rays of the setting sun. It'd be a beautiful picture, minus the obnoxious glare coming off the top of his sunglasses; that he could do without, though there's a beauty to that too, with the way the light is refracting off the windows and mirrors, it nearly forms a broken halo atop his head. Sinbad can't help the small chuckle that builds up at the thought of Ja'far as an angel, well, as the hallmark version anyway; he's too fuel of passion and spirit, too willful to pass for one of those. A wrathful archangel serving as a warrior of heaven, more likely. 

He's passed his building by the time he's paying attention again and damn his brain for being so distractible. His eye for the world always had that kind of effect, it always drew him in a little too deep; he was always looking at the world, but not really getting what other people got, what other people saw; he was always going beyond that, experiencing beyond that farther and deeper. It doesn't happen all the time, and lately, well, lately as it pertains to since before he met Ja'far, it hadn't even been frequent. It's like he'd rekindled a spark that had gone out and he hadn't even realized it was gone. Maybe dimmed was a better term than gone out, because he did still have moments, they just weren't as captivating, weren't as mesmerizing, and he was able to write them off more easily. Instead, he was imagining the paint colors he would mix, the layers he would form, the lines he would blur, the hues he would darken, and there goes his apartment building again. 

He finishes a circle, and notices someone walking their dog giving him a wary look, and he waves his hand sheepishly at them as he drives by, knowing he looked like some kind of criminal scoping out the place. It's not until the car is pushed into park that Ja'far looks up, his glasses sliding down and plopping on the edge of his nose with the motion, and appears confused. 

"Where are we?" He asks, looking around, though Sinbad is happy to note it seems like more curiosity tinted with a bit of apprehension than straight fear, which was the worst case scenario he had extrapolated while concocting his plan, which he is now beginning to doubt again. 

"This is where I live, I uh, wanted to grab some stuff. Didn't want to leave you alone just yet since you still weren't feeling good," he's fibbing, seeing as he's planning on throwing together an overnight bag just in case he manages to not aggravate the other into throwing him out on the street. "And I figured you might want some help with that grading if you start feeling up to it," he mumbles as an afterthought. Ja'far looks skeptical, his eyes narrowed slightly behind the glasses he had now positioned properly on his fair face. His cheeks are still somewhat flushed, though nowhere near the degree they had been back at the school. 

They sit there a moment, just looking at each other before Sin realizes Ja'far is probably waiting for him to make the first move and he fumbles with the door handle before managing to get the thing open. 

His apartment is newer, and he'd only moved into this one a couple years ago. They had amenities he hardly ever used, like the pool or the weight room or the dog park. There was shrubbery lining the buildings and the stairs were metal and concrete - sturdy. He led Ja'far up to the second floor, to his un-decorated and unremarkable green door; there were green buildings and there were blue buildings, he just happened to be in one of the green ones. The complex itself was massive, buildings upon buildings lining up like an army on the hill, just waiting for battle. 

They don't spend much time in his apartment. Sin pours a glass of water for Ja'far, and seats him in the living room. Ja'far fiddles with his phone and then Sinbad disappears into his bedroom to grab the necessities he wants. 

All in all it probably takes ten minutes before they're throwing his stuff into the car to join their work bags and move back onto the road. 

After navigating their way into the smaller part of the city where Ja’far lives, the sun has set and harsh winds have pushed in, driving the vehicle to bounce between the white and yellow lines like some sort of disproportionate ping-pong or Atari game. 

They pull up and Sinbad leaves the car in park, headlights looming on the apartment building with it's sole flickering light illuminating the wooden stairs leading further up into the complex. It wasn't decrepit by any means, but it was definitely one of the older complexes in town, and it did look less than welcoming. Regardless, with a sigh, Ja'far pushes the door open and steps out into the weather just as rain begins to pelt the windows, a gentle sprinkle, but biting with the force of the winds gliding in. 

Sin follows him, quickening his pace so that he beats the other man to their bags in the backseat, snatching both of them up in his grasp. He meets Ja'far's eyes from across the seat and is surprised to see a fond annoyance playing on the other's features. He smiles back, and the look goes on probably a bit longer than is really socially acceptable but he can't be bothered to care; it's just the two of them there anyway.

The rain picks up to a steady stream and he laughs at himself, feeling his shirt fall victim to the water and begins clinging to his skin. He pulls back and kicks the door closed before gesturing for Ja'far to lead the way. He shakes his head, a smattering of water falling from his bleached hair before he heads to the stairs in a light jog.

Sinbad follows suit, only feeling a little stupid running through the rain, that they could have pretty much completely avoided if he hadn't been staring like a blind man seeing color for the first time, with his bags smacking against his sides. There's already puddles in the poorly paved parking lot, pooling at the curb, which he just happens to misstep into, throwing gravely grime up to his knees and sloshing up into his shoes. Instead of feeling annoyed though, he just smiles, near relishing as the rain continues to fall against him. 

They slow when they reach the stairs, the upper floors shielding them from the wet. He's led to the 3rd floor, the top in this complex; Sin's own building has six floors, but three was common in the older structures, the ones build before the town was so desperately pressed for space. The wood is solid beneath his feet, no rot betraying it's stability, for which he is thankful. Ja'far pulls his keys and goes to unlock the door while Sinbad's eyes wander to watch as the rain trespasses onto the edge of the balcony, pulled by the wind to dampen the sheltered zone. 

When he hears the third lock fall back with a plunk he turns attention back to his friend and notices the modified security Ja'far has in place at his home. Dark eyes turn to meet his, and the question is on the tip of his tongue until he sees the masked embarrassment as Ja'far turns the knob and ducks inside, and the words feel like ashes in his mouth. 

He toes off his shoes at the entrance, wincing as his wet socks hit the ground, and watches as Ja'far does the same. He grimaces sympathetically when Ja'far's damp pant legs tuck under his socked feet. Ja'far grumbles something unintelligible before continuing down the hall and turning into one of the doors lining it, the light flicking on and illuminating his shadow back into the hall until the door closes behind him, leaving only a sliver of luminescence to shine under the door. 

He stands there in the hall awkwardly for a moment, taking in the apartment. The furniture is sparse, the "dining room" table is a fold out piece of furniture with two small chairs that don't match around it. The kitchen has white cabinets and black appliances. The stove and oven look unused, and the microwave door is hanging open. The clocks aren't set in the kitchen, and there's no pots or pans in sight. There's no couch in the living room across from the dining room. There's a small desk in the corner of the room, a laptop that looks like it might be the most expensive item in the apartment sitting on top of it. He's starting to rethink his "plan" when the door opens with a small squeak of protest and Ja'far is walking back up the hall with a bundle of fabric in his arms. Sin raises his eyebrow at the pile, and Ja'far thrusts the pile out in front of him with his eyes downcast. 

"Here. Didn't think you'd want to stay wet." He pushes them into Sinbad's chest before turning on his heel and retreating up the hall. He makes it halfway there before stumbling sideways, his hand darting out to grasp the wall, slumping against it minutely. Sinbad is about to rush to his side when Ja'far collects himself, shaking his head and moving purposefully onward, determined not to look back, slamming the door slightly, and then two clicks echoing through the heavy silence. 

He unwraps the bundle in his arms, finding a towel, sweatpants and socks. He looks around, not sure how to proceed, and not wanting to wander unwanted into some private space in the apartment, so he does what any (well, probably not any) man would do, and unbuckles his belt. 

He's drying his hair with the towel, stripped down to his boxers and socks, when he hears the unmistakable sound of a lock clunking back into place, and a metallic click. Dumbly, he doesn't even try to cover himself, he just turns to look over his shoulder, towel still draped over his head, and waves. 

Ja'far is beet red, and Sinbad hopes it isn't out of anger. After too many seconds of prolonged silences he turns to face the other man. For a brief moment, one short enough that Sinbad isn't sure if he imagined it or not, Ja'far glances at the only part of Sinbad that's still clothed, and thankfully, standing down, before he doubles over in laughter. 

His laughter is the best sound, and Sinbad finds it is DAMN contagious. He's clutching his stomach and laughing, a full bodied, freeing, rumble of pure happiness. He glances down by chance, and realizes what's so funny. He had been way behind on laundry, leaving a pair of neon mismatched socks and about the only pair of boxers clean a gag gift he'd gotten at the school Christmas party the previous year. They were Disney boxers with Pinocchio's face, and his nose over the fly. He's too happy to even care enough to be embarrassed, and for too long than is socially acceptable they just continue laughing, the sound escalating till it's near hysteric giggles, each of them feeding off the other. 

They probably would have continued laughing longer if another wave of nausea hadn't overcome Ja'far, the man paling and stopping abruptly before taking off down the hall.

Sin's upstairs brain must not be working very well because he runs after the other, finding Ja'far hadn't shut the door behind him, and is met with the image of him emptying WHATEVER is left in his stomach into the toilet. He crouches next to Ja'far, his hand resting on a far too bony shoulder, and is met with a violent flinch that makes him pull back. He notices now that his fit of laughter is over that Ja'far had traded out his long sleeved, impeccably buttoned appearance for a lax tee-shirt and sweats that are so long they're covering his feet. 

His glasses are on the floor beside him, laid there haphazardly as he heaves into the commode. He pulls away, turning and slumping against it before startling at how close Sinbad was to him. In this position, Sinbad was damn near straddling him, Sin's flushed face just inches from Ja'far's paled one, able to see the freckles and sweat slipping down his cheek. 

"Are you alright?" He asks, noticing his voice is a hair rougher than normal, the pitch a little deeper. He tries not to think about it too much. 

Ja'far nods, coughing weakly. His eyes slip shut and he looks downright exhausted. He starts fumbling around for his glasses, and Sin grabs them up off the linoleum. He unfolds the, fingers brushing the sweat dampened fringe away from Ja'far's face before sliding the glasses onto his face, booping him on the nose when they were placed. 

He freezes when it clicks with him what he's done, and Ja'far is just staring at him, his wide eyes greener in the harsh light of the bathroom, but the dark streaks are still prominent throughout. Sin coughs awkwardly into his hand before pushing back onto his heels and standing. He starts to hold out his hand to Ja'far, and then pulls it back in an abortive motion. Sinbad shakes his head, realizing he's overthinking the situation and outstretching his hand again to the other male. 

Ja'far looks at it for a moment, and Sin is about to pull it back when a cold hand grasps his, though in a manner weaker than he would have expected. He blames the strain of the day. 

"Thanks," Ja'far mumbles when Sin pulls him up, though he pulls a little too hard, and Ja'far damn near stumbles into his bare chest. Ja'far fumbles away, tripping over his feet and over long pants in the process, grabbing onto the shower curtain to keep from losing his balance completely.  

Sinbad at least has the decency to look sheepish after that disaster of an interaction, and turns away, heading back down the hall to clothe himself, a task several minutes overdue. He's just finished pulling on his damp undershirt when Ja'far makes his exit. He's still a little pale, but nowhere near the ashen shade he had been in the bathroom and at school that afternoon. He frowns at Sinbad's shirt, and wordlessly ducks into his bedroom for a few moments before emerging with a faded purple tee held a little too tightly in his grasp. With a small amount of hesitation, he hands it over to Sinbad, eyes dropping meaningfully at the wet spots on his shoulders when he makes no move to take the shirt. 

It's a little tight, especially over his chest and shoulders, but not nearly as ill fitting as he would have expected considering their difference in size; Ja'far being a bit shorter and much slighter in frame, much more slender strength, whereas he himself is bulkier and broader built - though he imagines hand to hand, they'd be pretty equally matched, though if they were unevenly matched, he has the sneaking suspicion Ja'far would be the one with the upper hand. He's got a finesse that Sin lacks, and this constant energy that seems to by thrumming just beneath the surface that he feels could unleash something powerful and frightening. He has little actual reason to believe any of that, but he just gets those kinds of vibes, those kinds of projections from people, and he's very rarely wrong. It's like a sixth sense almost, which is part of the issue with Kouen.  

Kouen threw him off. Generally people he doesn't get along with give off an almost pungent aura. There was a man he'd met in grade school that had the foulest sense about him. It damn near made Sin nauseous just to be in his presence. It had been the first time he'd met someone like that, so at first he thought it was a physical smell, like the man had poor hygiene or something, and wondered why his friends didn't seem to notice it. 

It clicked for him when they had been underground, around the boxing ring he had lured them to, and the air conditioner had been blowing away from them, but he could still feel that disgusting projection as if the man were breathing down his neck. 

He'd been goaded into fighting, and most of it was a blur. He got a nasty blow to the head that had given him a concussion and left most of the memories of that night foggy. He remembered winning, but it didn't feel like winning. His opponent had been tiny, child sized, and fast. His friends had congratulated him, saying he'd broken his opponent's flawless streak. He remembered shattered white, something pure, something not unlike what he felt around his closest friends, what he felt around Ja'far, and he remember that stench pure as day. 

He's broken out of his reverie by the sound of Ja'far's voice, disgruntled mumbling about how Sinbad was going to stretch that out and it was never going to fit again. Sinbad wasn't sure it ever fit in the first place, but he apologizes anyway. 

The rain is torrential outside, pounding on the windows, and thunder rolls distantly, lightning illuminating the sky incrementally, too far off still. He briefly considers checking his phone to make sure nothing severe is coming, but he decides against it. It's not like it would make him want to be anywhere else anyway. 

It occurs to him that he never actually accomplished what he had set out to do that afternoon, his plans so far derailed by whatever had made Ja'far so sick. 

"Some friends and I are going to get together after the last day to go over grading before final submissions are due. Did you want to join us?" Ja'far looks at him blankly for a moment before shaking his head. 

"No, I'm alright." There's something about the way he says it, the forlorn glint in his eyes that makes him push, makes him try and get the other to agree.

"I'm sure Yam could use all the help we can muster up," he offers. It gets a small smirk out of Ja'far, something that makes Sinbad's inner self do a little dance of victory. "I'll still help you tonight, but we'd all love to have you join us." 

He's hoping, and maybe he's being too insistent over something so menial, but he wants Ja'far to be part of his life, to be a part of his friend group. He wants him to know he's welcome, by the others just as much as by Sin himself. Well, maybe not quite as much. He knew Ja'far shared lunch duty with Yam before, and that he and Masrur had hung out before school on occasion, though he can't imagine that's a very talkative event. He obviously had a connection of some sort to Hina and Rurumu, but he wanted more. He wanted them all to be close, he wanted his friends to be Ja'far's friends, to be support for him too, the way they all have been to each other through the years. 

"Alright," Ja'far concedes. If his inner self was doing a dance over the smile, he was jumping for joy now. He still sounds reluctant, and Sinbad feels like Ja'far is concerned he's unwelcome, and Sin thinks he may try and back out later, but it's something. He considers having Yam invite him as well to try and dispel that notion. 

"You want a second set of eyes and hands now?" He says, wiggling his fingers in the air. Ja'far rolls his eyes at him before grabbing the bag he had discarded at the door. He frowns at his sparingly decorated living room before going left and into the open floorplan of the dining room and kitchen area. He flops the bag down on the table and sits in one of the chairs; it's not a comfortable situation but it'll do. 

Sinbad goes for his own bag, sitting by the heap of his wet clothes. 

"You can throw those in the bathroom," Ja'far says, pulling papers out of his bag, his expression schooled and serious. Sin takes the clothes and his other bag that Ja'far thankfully has not asked about, discretely into the bathroom. It hits him then that he could have worn one of the shirts he had brought instead of forcing Ja'far's to accommodate his too large frame. He grumbles to himself, disparaging his thoughtlessness. 

"Sin?" Ja'far calls down the hall. Sinbad heads back down the hall in time to hear Ja'far mutter, "you better not be snooping." 

"Not snooping," he says, making Ja'far jump slightly. "Sorry, just distracted." He takes the seat opposite Ja'far, leaving his own bag on the floor beside him. 

It’s companionable and relaxed, the two of them working, not really in collaboration but still together. It’s something he could get used to. It’s something he could really get used to…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave kudos and/or a comment if you enjoyed reading as those motivate me to keep making content. 
> 
> You can visit me on tumblr at cassiel-of-thursday@tumblr.com, I answer questions, post about stories, and take prompts on fandoms I'm in (Magi and Supernatural are the big ones right now). 
> 
> <3 
> 
> Cassie


	13. Apologies

Hi everyone, 

I have some mixed feelings about this, but I have decided to officially place this story on hiatus. I've struggled a lot getting the last two chapters out, and didn't really get much of a response - this may be because it's been such a long WIP that people lost interest, I'm not sure. 

I hope to come back to it, but right now the inspiration just isn't there. I've all but left this fandom and have a two month old at home that just aren't making writing a compatible process. Writing this has become more work than fun, and I'm sorry to those who have stuck with this as long as it's been going. 

I'll be posting where the story would have gone to my tumblr if anyone is interested in looking at that, I just don't know when I'll get back to this... 

Cassie

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw a post on tumblr talking about teacher/teacher relationship, and immediately started thinking of Sinja. If you have nay suggestions or prompts you want to happen during their development, leave a comment and I'll try and incorporate it. Sinja is endgame here. Also, all characters are alive for the purposes of this story. Yay.


End file.
